Of What Was and Will Be
by Devin Trinidad
Summary: A collection of one-shots, drabbles, and snippets concerning Italia Veneziano.
1. M A S T E R L I S T

Hello, Devin here! As you might have realized, this is basically a collection of one-shots, drabbles, and headcanons concerning or relating heavily to Italia Veneziano. As time goes by, I will continually keep on adding to this masterlist whenever I update with a new drabble or one-shot (I'm aiming for 50 future parts of this anthology series). You can use this masterlist as a way to guide you to the newest chapter or revisit the ones you like with little hassle.

You are free to suggest prompts, but I can't guarantee that I will honor that. Furthermore, there will be little shipping in the series, but I will be partial to friendships and bromances whenever the circumstances call for them.

Another note: I am not a historian or an Italian. If things are amiss or I have done something completely inaccurate or offensive, feel free to tell me in the reviews or PM me. Please don't be rude; I am here to learn from mistakes, not to be belittled for my ignorance. Thank you.

Anywhoozles, I bid thee all adieu and I hope you all enjoy!

**EDIT November 2, 2019: **Due to extenuating circumstances, I will not be updating for a while. I will return to regular posting on January 4, 2020.

**EDIT April 12, 2020****: **After a small vote cast in Chapter 49 A fistful of Notecards An Eyeful of Tears, reviewers have unanimously agreed that the series will continue for another fifty chapters! Thank you to all those who reviewed and who silently read. This was a wild journey and I can't wait to embark on another year of Veneziano's stories and Hetalia shenanigans.

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**1\. Of Splendor and Riches**

Date Written: _January 2, 2019_

Date Posted: _March 17, 2019_

Characters: _The Roman Empire, Veneziano_

Summary: _A young blustering Roman Empire finds a dingy little boat on the water_.

Notes: _Takes place to when the Roman Empire was still flourishing, possible a few centuries before his decline. Since Venice is known to be the "City of Water", I decided to incorporate that into this fic. There may be a few historical inaccuracies, but nothing too glaring, I hope._

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**2\. When the Old Ones Talk**

Date Written: _January 2, 2019_

Date Posted: _March 23, 2019_

Characters: _Germany, Italy, Japan_

Summary: _Germany is young, Italy and Japan are not._

Notes: _Takes place during World War II._

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**3\. Little Brother, Little Bother**

Date Written: _January 3, 2019_

Date Posted: _March 30, 2019_

Characters: _The Roman Empire, Romano, Veneziano_

Summary: _Romano gets slightly jealous of the foundling that Rome just happened to come across._

Notes: _References "Of Splendor and Riches", but there is no need to actually read that one-shot if you don't wish to._

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**4\. A Fatal Sort of Tipsiness**

Date Written: _January 3, 2019_

Date Posted: _April 6, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, England_

Summary: _Veneziano, as most Nations are wont to do, dies._

Notes: _Headcanons on how Nations die, how they come to terms with dying, etc. References the infamous Medici family._

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**5\. On the Shoulders of Giants**

Date Written: _January 5, 2019_

Date Posted:_ April 13, 2019_

Characters: _China, The Roman Empire, Veneziano_

Summary: _Serica allows his trading partner from the West to visit. A small child sits upon the brute's shoulders_.

Notes: _China is referred to as Serica, one of the easternmost nations that was known to Greek and Roman cartographers. Serica often refers to just North China at the time. As most people know, you can reach Serica through the Silk Road. However, despite this aforementioned route, trade was usually conducted through a series of mediators (one of which was Parthia, the northern part of modern Iran). I have a headcanon that Rome and China had a sort of friendship, but they didn't always interact because they were busy with their own affairs. Also, this is probably not my best work, I had scant time proofreading and I'm not sure if I characterized China that well. Oh, well._

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**6\. New World Discoveries**

Date Written: _January_ _7_, 2019

Date Posted: _April 23, 2019_

Characters_: Veneziano, America_

Summary_: Veneziano and America meet for the first time._

Notes_: I did a little research. Apparently, America and Italy first had relations established in 1840 (but was apparently suspended because of the lynching of eleven Italians in New Orleans, Louisiana in 1891). At this time, both Nations are under a bit of public upheaval. At the time, Italy is undergoing the Risorgimento (the unification of all Italy, which was rife with struggles and war) while America was busy setting up the grounds of the 1860s Civil War period due to their acquisition of new territories in the west and south and the unresolved issues concerning slavery._

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**7\. Enclosed Spaces**

Date Written: _January 17, 2019_

Date Posted: _April 27, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, Seborga_

Summary: _Two brothers get into a fight and the third brother kicks the both of them into the basement. Even more fighting ensues._

Notes: _I just wanted to experiment what would it be like to write a fight scene._

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**8\. Two Euros and a Smile**

Date Written**: **_January 24, 2019_

Date Posted**: **_May 4**, **2019_

Characters**: **_Germany**, **Veneziano_

Summary**: **_Germany loses his wallet**.**_

Notes: _N/A_

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**9\. Cultural Mismatch**

Date Written: _January 28, 2019_

Date Posted: _May 11, 2019_

Characters: _Japan, Germany, Veneziano_

Summary: _Japan meets Italy for the first time in the beginning of World War II._

Notes: _Actually, the Italy brothers did meet Japan a little bit before WWII (I'm pretty sure there was a comic panel where it has Veneziano reminiscing on how...withdrawn Japan was). However, I decided to play around with Japan and his expectations. As you can see...the results are very ironic and funny. Just take this little fic with a grain salt._

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**10\. Rest Notes and Acrylics**

Date Written: _January 28, 2019_

Date Posted: _May 18, 2019_

Characters: _Austria, Veneziano_

Summary: _With the rise of the internet, Austria likes keeping in touch with his friends via video calls. Sometimes, he paints._

Notes: _I have a little headcanon that because Austria is so lazy at times, he took to technology like a fish in water. A few other Nations who also love technology are Japan, America, Canada, etc. Those who aren't as for technology: Prussia, England, France, etc. (These are just based off the characters themselves and not the state of the Nations themselves)._

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**11\. Reading Stones**

Date Written: _February 1, 2019_

Date Posted: _May 31, 2019_

Characters: _Austria, Veneziano_

Summary: _Veneziano gifts a neighbor with a strange sort of eyepiece._

Notes: _Canonically, Austria has no need for glasses—he only uses them for his talent aspect of his character. Historically speaking, glasses were formed when someone created a nose bridge between two reading stones. These reading stones (hemispherical lenses) were placed atop of texts to magnify letters should they feel the need to read more clearly. In fact, reading stones were first discovered and used by the Romans. Glasses, on the other hand, made their first appearance in Pisa, Italy in the 13th_ Century.

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**12\. Of Waste and Despair**

Date Written: _February 1, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 1, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Germany_

Summary: _Hidden in a crate of decayed produce, Italy ruminates on life. _

Notes: _Just my own little spin on that first short that kickstarted the series._

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**13\. Hidden in the Shadows**

Date Written: _February 2, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 8, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _Italy is busy preparing for a World Meeting at his house when security reports something strange._

Notes:

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**14\. The Anomaly**

Date Written: _February 3, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 8, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _A little discussion on how Italy as a whole is different from other Nations. _

Notes: _Contains references to the Risorgimento and Italian Wars. Artistic license was employed; I am not that well versed in Italian History._

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**15\. The Strange Man Upstairs**

Date Written: _February 5, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 15, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _There's a strange man upstairs who has fresh paint on his clothes and smells of freshly cooked pasta. _

Notes:

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**16\. Beneath the Surface**

Date Written: _February 3, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 22, 2019_

Characters: _America, Romano, Veneziano_

Summary: _Romano's thoughts on America's new hobby. _

Notes: _It's canon that Veneziano is really skilled at fencing._

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**17\. From the Ground Up**

Date Written: _February 6, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 29, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _Francesco, a newly widowed man, contemplated the future of his people as they settle the marshy lagoons east of the mainland. Along the way, he meets a small child who isn't as innocent as he appears._

Notes: _Basically, Venice was formed when barbarians began flooding into the mainland after the Romano Empire fell, which forced many Italians to disperse across the waters. Soon, those who settled into the marshy lagoons began to make permanent homes in the lagoons, but there was still the problem of flooding and trying to create permanent homes. So, they drove wooden stakes in the ground and began to build from there. These wooden stakes would be the reason why Venice still stands today—albeit, it is slowly sinking. When exposed to the salty water of the Adriatic, the wood hardened and rivaled the strength of that of concrete. However, if the wooden stakes were to be uncovered by the water, bacteria would begin to eat away and cause mold. Venice officially came to life on March 25, 421 A.D._

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**18\. Sister Republic**

Date Written: _February 6, 2019_

Date Posted_: July 6, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Genoa_

Summary: _Before you say anything, I know that Genoa is a canon character and he's portrayed as a curly headed boy with a crown on his head. (Why? I don't know). Secondly, the confrontation between Genoa and Veneziano is a reference to the first of the Venetian-Genoese Wars (War of Saint Sabas from 1256-1270). To cut a small story short, Venice and Genoa were getting on each other's nerves by disputing over trade routes, land, etc. While Genoa tried to evade attacking, Venice employed naval forces, which caused a decisive winner in Venice's part. Furthermore, I mentioned Pisa a few times because n the War of Saint Sabas, Pisa sided with Venice. (Hence the reason why Veneziano has a Pisan dagger on his person...I don't think Pisa was ever known for its daggers or weaponry, but I have creative license, so there!). For further information, just look up the Venetian-Genoese Wars anywhere on the net and you'll see._

Notes:

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**19\. Let the Young Ones Play**

Date Written: _February 8, 2019_

Date Posted_: July 13, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, England, Canada, America_

Summary: Two old Nations go senile while their juniors have the time of their lives.

Notes:

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**20\. The Floating City**

Date Written: _February 8, 2019_

Date Posted: _July 20, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Veneziano goes through a midlife crisis. Romano isn't taking any of that shit._

Notes:

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**21\. Collapsed Creases**

Date Written: _February 9, 2019_

Date Posted: _July 27, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Japan_

Summary:_ Italy tries to understand his fellow Axis member, Japan better. This entails a mission of observation and pleasant conversation._

Notes:

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**22\. Odd Dreams**

Date Written: _February 10, 2019_

Date Posted: _August 3, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Estonia_

Summary: _Estonia is a little confused, but otherwise willing to hang out with Italy...until that one specific conversation._

Notes:

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**23\. Countertop Counterargument**

Date Written: _February 10, 2019_

Date Posted: _August 10, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Romano gets stuck doing the dishes. Veneziano gets stuck eating his favorite dessert of all time._

Notes: _Canonically, Veneziano loves gelato, but he gets an ache in his stomach for eating too much._

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**24\. Times Gone By**

Date Written: _February 13, 2019_

Date Posted: _August 17, 2019_

Characters: _Hungary, Veneziano_

Summary: _Hungary comforts a young Veneziano when he comes to her in a terrible state._

Notes: _This is after the dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire._

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**25\. Prince Among Men**

Date Written: _February 13, 2019_

Date Posted: _August 24, 2019_

Characters: _Romano, Genoa, Veneziano_

Summary: _Genoa wants a piece of that Venetian trading empire._

Notes: _This chapter (like Ch 18) is all about the Venetian-Genoese Wars. In the end, after four wars with Genoa, the Venetian Empire happened to win due to a technicality. Hence, the reason why Genoa is so salty. Also, I kind of cheated. Veneziano has a major role in this chapter, but he doesn't really appear...but I'm halfway through my goal of fifty chapters, so who cares! Ha!_

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**26\. Strange Men at Night**

Date Written: _February 15, 2019_

Date Posted: _August 31, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _A young woman stumbles upon a man on the verge of death. Everything goes awry from there._

Notes:

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**27\. Innocence Lost**

Date Written: _February 15, 2019_

Date Posted_: September 7, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Wy_

Summary: _Veneziano has to review a painting that he doesn't particularly like. _

Notes:

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**28\. Sketch Onto Canvas**

Date Written: _February 26, 2019_

Date Posted_: September 14, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Veneziano finds himself a little free time after hours of working. _

Notes:

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**29\. The Creativity Within**

Date Written: _February 26, 2019_

Date Posted_: September 21, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, England, Romano, Seborga_

Summary: _England is stuck on what sort of present he should give to Sealand. Veneziano tries his utmost to help. _

Notes:

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**30\. The Structural Integrity of a Disaster**

Date Written: _February 27, 2019_

Date Posted_: September 28, 2019_

Characters: _Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Switzerland protects his property against Italian architecture. _

Notes: _The Guard that is mentioned is the Swiss Guard that help protect the Pope. I also included a reference to that particular episode where Italy has fun on the beach of that one mysterious island._

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**31\. In His Eyes**

Date Written: _February 28, 2019_

Date Posted_: October 5, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _Veneziano contemplates human relationships and children._

Notes:

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**32\. The Drive**

Date Written: _March 1, 2019_

Date Posted: _October 26 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _On a drive to Austria's house, an argument arises._

Notes: _Part One of a three part series._

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**33\. The Talk**

Date Written: _March 3, 2019_

Date Posted: _October 26 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Romano and Germany have a small talk._

Notes: _Part Two of a three part series._

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**34\. The Morning After**

Date Written: _March 8, 2019_

Date Posted: _October 26 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Austria_

Summary: _The aftermath after hours of drinking._

Notes: _Part Three of a three part series._

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**35\. Unmasking**

Date Written: _October 29, 2019_

Date Posted_: November 2 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, America_

Summary: _America tries out a little something on Veneziano. It does not go well. For America. _

Notes: _The Carnival of Venice is world renowned for their elaborate masks and costumes._

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**36\. Keep Your Mouth Shut**

Date Written: _March 21, 2019_

Date Posted_: January 4, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _A young secretary finds herself in a dangerous situation with only the Italian representative for help _

Notes:

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**36\. Keep Your Mouth Shut**

Date Written: _March 21, 2019_

Date Posted_: January 4, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _A young secretary finds herself in a dangerous situation with only the Italian representative for help._

Notes:

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**37\. The Other Brother**

Date Written: _March 24, 2019_

Date Posted_: January 11, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Veneziano and Romano have a conversation about Grandpa Rome and other relations. _

Notes:

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**38\. Bass-ic Courtesy**

Date Written: _March 24, 2019_

Date Posted: _January 18, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Romano violates one of the basic rules of borrowing._

Notes: _Will remain unfinished, but please enjoy what I have so far._

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**39\. Beauty in all Things**

Date Written: _March 24, 2019_

Date Posted: _January 25, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Liechtenstein_

Summary: _Liechtenstein just recently cut her hair to show her appreciation for her brother. Unfortunately, she still feels a little self conscious about it._

Notes: _Takes place during those scenes in the anime where it's all about Liechtenstein's relationship with her brother._

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**40\. Self Preservation And Games**

Date Written: _March 26, 2019_

Date Posted_: February 1, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Sealand_

Summary: _The Nations are at a meeting. They bring out some board games and the like. Sealand tries to sneak in. __**Mission Failure**__. Call in the Italian. _

Notes:

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**41\. Confessional**

Date Written: _March 26, 2019_

Date Posted: _February 8, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, Vaticano_

Summary: _Veneziano's anger is like that of a mountain of rocks. Too many rocks and the mountain would come crumbling down. Today, Veneziano's anger overcomes him._

Notes: _It has been noted in recent years that the younger generation of Italians, usually those in the north usually are not as religious as their elders. Furthermore, it appears that as time passes by, less people are defining themselves as Catholic or Christian, instead they are conforming more to a secularized world. What is most surprising, considering that Italy is home to the Vatican, is that church attendance has been rapidly declining in the past decade._

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**42\. Averting a Crisis**

Date Written: _March 27, 2019_

Date Posted:_ February 15, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Germany_

Summary: _Veneziano receives a disturbing phone call bearing bad news._

Notes:

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**43\. The Pen is Mightier than the Sword**

Date Written: _March 29, 2019_

Date Posted_: February 22, 2020_

Characters: _America, Canada, Japan, Romano_

Summary: _America and the gang are a bookstore. Tensions simmer gently under the surface when Romano and Japan get into an argument over Veneziano's preference concerning pens._

Notes:

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**44\. House of Cards**

Date Written: _March 29, 2019_

Date Posted: _February 29, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Monaco_

Summary: _Veneziano tries to make a house out of cards. Monaco wants to play a game._

Notes:

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**45\. Delicate Delicacies**

Date Written: _March 30, 2019_

Date Posted_: March 7, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Belarus_

Summary: _Belarus plays medic while at a party._

Notes:

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**46\. Matchstick Matchmaker**

Date Written: _March 30, 2019_

Date Posted_: March 14, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, Seborga_

Summary: _As per usual, the Italian brothers bicker. The only difference is that Seborga knows more than both his siblings combined. _

Notes:

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**47\. Chocolate Enterprise**

Date Written: _March 31, 2019_

Date Posted_: March 21, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, France, Belgium, America_

Summary: _Italian cuisine was one of the best in the world! How come no one else could see that?_

Notes:

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**48\. Just for the Day**

Date Written: _April 1, 2019_

Date Posted: _March 28, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, Spain_

Summary: _Romano and Veneziano trade places for the day. While Romano gets to work closely with the government, Veneziano stays at home and tends to the garden._

Notes:

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**49\. A Fistful of Notecards, An Eyeful of Tears**

Date Written: _April 3, 2019_

Date Posted: _April 5, 2020_

Characters: _Ukraine, Veneziano_

Summary: _As more and more things go wrong in the middle of her presentation, Ukraine focuses on a certain European Nation to be her main source of comfort._

Notes: _Woooot! I made it to 50 chapters! I made my goal! For those of you still reading, would you like another 50 to make this a collection of 100 one-shots, or do you want me to end it now? Please let me know before I post again next week. If I receive no word, I'll just post my FINAL chapter that will tie up this series and send my muse, Veneziano, away for a well deserved vacation. Regardless, this was a wild ride and I had so much interacting with you guys and with our favorite Romance Nation. To next week! :D_

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**50\. Correlation Does Not Imply Causation**

Date Written: _April 5, 2019_

Date Posted_: April 12, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Veneziano confronts Romano about his relations concerning another Nation. _

Notes: _After all the votes, I have come to the conclusion that I will extend this series for another fifty chapters. It was a unanimous vote and I would like to thank all of you for responding! Without you, this series would not have come this far. Here's to another year of Veneziano and Hetalia! :D_

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**51\. Misplaced Misunderstanding**

Date Written: _April 6, 2019_

Date Posted_: April 19, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, Prussia_

Summary: _Prussia manages to find himself possessing confidential information. _

Notes:

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**52\. North American Hubris**

Date Written: _April 10, 2019_

Date Posted_: April 27, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, America, Canada_

Summary: _The Italy brothers reluctantly visit the American twins. _

Notes:

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**53\. Playing Hooky**

Date Written: _April 24, 2019_

Date Posted_: May 2, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _Veneziano gets bored during a meeting. _

Notes:


	2. Of Splendor and Riches

**1\. Of Splendor and Riches**

Date Written: _January 2, 2019_

Date Posted: _March 17, 2019_

Characters: _The Roman Empire, Veneziano_

Summary: _A young blustering Roman Empire finds a dingy little boat on the water._

Notes: _Takes place to when the Roman Empire was still flourishing, possible a few centuries before his decline. Since Venice is known to be the "City of Water", I decided to incorporate that into this fic. There may be a few historical inaccuracies, but nothing too glaring, I hope._

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It was another sound victory for the Roman Empire. Under the watchful eye of his boss, the Great Roman Empire had managed to amass additional land in the West. It was a trial, for sure, but at the end of the day, he was victorious. His blood roared through his veins with a melody that sung of triumph. Such beauty did the far off lands offer, such riches he could attain from such far off splendor!

After he could physically do no more, the Roman Empire returned to his main holdings. His muscles were newly scarred, but his heart was full of joy. And so, he settled by himself near the coastlines, wanting to rest and prepare for future conquering. However, as he had settled down for his nightly ritual, he began to hear something amiss. Confused, but wary, the warrior stepped out from his makeshift camp and began to walk towards the noise.

Although he had no weapon (a foresight that he would correct in the future), the Roman Empire knew he could overtake any threat if the worst were to happen. Nations had sprung before him and many will come after, but none could hold a candle to his strength now. None could and none would—of that he was sure.

So caught up in his musings, he almost didn't hear a little shrieking sound just a few meters away from where he stood. Intrigued, the warrior stepped back and found himself looking down at a little boat; it was crudely made and decaying from the damp. Normally, the Roman Empire would have turned away after such a trivial matter, but underneath the rays of the soothing moon, his eyes caught trace of white cloth underneath what appeared to be miscellaneous provisions one would usually find in a boat.

As his eyes adjusted and as he moved closer, the bundle of white cloth rustled and let out a little cry. Bemused, the Nation stepped—a little awkwardly—into the boat, which caused the bundle of cloth to stop crying out in fear.

Unbidden, a smooth smile graced his features. "Hello? Are you a nymph little one? One of Neptune's children?"

He chuckled when he received no answer.

The man seated himself besides the cloth, a look of patience on his face as he idly watched.

For a few moments, the bundle of cloth refused to do anything, a trait that pleased the Roman Empire. If the little one knew how to keep quiet when under the threat of attack, perhaps it would last longer than most. When minutes passed and the Roman Empire's patience was not yet rewarded with another sound or rustling from the bundle of cloth, he finally made his move.

With one large hand, the Nation grabbed hold of the bundle, almost amazed at how much the young one weighed. As he did so, the bundle kicked and screamed, causing the warrior Nation to smile despite the young one's best efforts to thwart his good intentions. Good, a fighter. The Roman Empire liked this one already. If he were human, he would have liked to raise and mentor this child as his own.

"Hush now," he commanded. At once, the babe quieted at his commanding tone and the Nation relaxed. He had allowed the child to misbehave, but the time was late. The warrior began to peel back the layers of white cloth where he thought the head would be. The process, underneath his deceptively nimble and dexterous fingers, took only a few seconds.

The babe, a boy he expected, looked up at him—a sight that had the older Nation gasping. In his large hand, he could see the likeness: the curl that rose up in defiance, the clear brown eyes, the straight Roman nose that had yet to emerge from the baby fat of his face.

Nations had no families, no one to hold their hand or to teach them. Young as he may be, the Roman Empire knew that this small child was a part of him. In a way, he was a reflection of him.

The young child…

Without restraint or for a passing thought to anyone who rested nearby, the warrior Nation laughed. He laughed with joy.

With sadness.

And fears of the future.

The young child, with tears of his own in clear brown eyes, looked up at him.

Already, he held a power that the Great Roman Empire was steadily succumbing to.

Potential.

The boy, unnamed and still so small, had potential.

"Come child of the sea, blessed by Neptune, I will take you home."

Surely, a young boy to raise and call his own was worth more than all the splendor and riches in the world.


	3. When the Old Ones Talk

**2\. When the Old Ones Talk**

Date Written: _January 2, 2019_

Date Posted: _March 23, 2019_

Characters: _Germany, Italy, Japan_

Summary: _Germany is young, Italy and Japan are not._

Notes: _Takes place during World War II._

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"Meeting adjourned if there are no complaints."

It's one of many meetings that the Axis have, and like always, little to nothing has been done.

Sure, there were agreements and tactics that have been discussed, but really, it all gets sidetracked by Italy's antics and Japan's near apathy (his cryptic comments and evasiveness, notwithstanding). And like most meetings, after the meat of the manner has been discussed and dragged through the mud tirelessly, Germany recounts everything in a small notebook while the rest of the Axis...talked.

Germany is not shy.

But there are times when he looks at the rest of the Axis and he yearns for the easy friendship that echoes from Italy's laughter and the softness that rims Japan's dark eyes.

It is during these meetings when he realizes, that Italy and Japan talk and reminisce as millennia old Nations are wont to do.

Germany doesn't like it when he's left out of the loop, especially when surrounded by allies.

It came to mind, during those days of the Axis alliance, that both Italy and Japan were quite strange. Of course, that was to be expected, considering that they were all very different Nations. Japan, it stood to reason, was a far off land who could relate better to that stupid upstart America (who also happened to be older than Germany) than Germany himself. On the other hand, Italy shouldn't have had any excuse, but Germany had little to no contact with the brunet before the first Great War. Even then, their brief meetings didn't inform Germany of what his ally to the south really was like.

And to the Germanic Nation who didn't want a repeat of his last defeat, that was a sobering thought.

They were supposed to be allies.

Allies were supposed to respect one another, to discuss all matters pertaining to their interests. However, in order to do that, there had to be trust. Trust, he had read, was best discovered through a variety of friendly interactions and experiences. Military drills and discussion of war tactics should have been more than sufficient given their nature and contributions to the war effort. Yet, even with all textbook examples of so-called trust and friendship, Germany felt like it wasn't enough.

Prussia had laughed when Germany felt—_anxious? nervous? left out?_—something not worthy enough to be categorized or labelled. Regardless, Prussia tells him that maybe he is too young, too inexperienced. With only one war under his belt and the distrust of numerous Nations, the blond had more than enough work to sift through. He had bristled at the suggestion that he was too immature, too wet behind the ears to try associating with Nations who were inexplicably, unfathomably older than he.

Germany tells Prussia as such and the albino ruffles his brother's hair.

So, here they are.

All of them, the Axis, are in the middle of a meeting and Germany is tired. The campaign, the trial, the look of betrayal of conquered neighbors feels too much; they weigh on him like there's a millstone hanging around his neck. Inside of him, he can feel the thrum of his people determinedly marching to a new era. An era where Germany is the supreme, the new empire of all Nations. He can hear the cries of justice, retribution for the humiliations bestowed upon them by the dreaded Allies.

Never again, they scream.

Never again, they cry.

Never again, Germany sighs.

It is the strange, reserved Japan who notices Germany's fatigued state first. Perhaps it's because the blond has sighed too loudly. Or perhaps Germany has slumped forward instead of sitting rigidly straight. Or, perhaps, Japan doesn't notice at all. Perhaps he seeks to move outside the monotony of drills and practices. Whatever is going throughout Japan's mind, Germany does not notice.

He is too young to grasp the niceness of concern, to feel the creases that form upon the oriental's usually blank expression. Too young to realize that this show of weakness is the prime time for when the vultures pick at a carcass.

Italy takes notice.

"I'm feeling so tired today!" The auburn haired young man exclaims. He collapses onto a chair and makes a show of popping off a few of his uniform's buttons before Japan leaves. The Asian Nation leaves with hushed murmurs about the Mediterranean's lack of decency and explanations that he is merely retrieving beverages for the three of them.

Germany barely holds onto the last fraying strands of his temper before that useless Italian spins out some nonsense about coffee before Germany hauls him out of the chair. It takes no effort; the Italian is only just barely touching the floor before the German releases him by the lapels.

Annoyed, but with a hint of mischief, Italy whines, "Hey, not fair! It's much too warm in this stuffy office! Why not we stroll outside when Japan comes out with drinks?"

"No." The word is cold and biting, like the edge of a newly honed knife. There is no place for pleasantries, of words that have little substance other than the faltering banter of false two-faced lies. Germany has had enough of all this pomp and circumstance. Brevity cuts to the meat of the problem and his anger is the driving force. "Enough of this, Italien, we came here to discuss—"

"And we already have, _Germania_."

That is no longer a tone that Germany has been acquainted with. The young man that now stares defiantly in front of the German is someone who Germany knows he has seen before, maybe in the heat of battle—or in another lifetime. Italy was always chomping at the bit—not out of maliciousness or because he disagreed with Germany's agenda. Oh, no. Italy has stood up because he cares too much for the pleasures of life, of living day to day to the fullest.

Carpe diem, Italy remarks offhandedly.

Bullshit, Germany scoffs.

Japan, as always stands abreast them. Neither on one side nor the other.

"We have to—"

"You are tired. Your people are in the midst of a trying time." In a show of uncharacteristic behavior, the Italian steps forward in away that Germany can only discern as stern. "Rest."

And when Germany hears that command in that tone of voice from that particular Nation, he retaliates. His brother has taught him time and time again to be strong, to crush any and all opposition. The world will be yours when you show that you are worthy of it, he had said.

Worthy, Germany thinks as he reels his hand back for a disciplinary slap. This useless Nation is not.

_He is beneath me. _

Not worthy.

Battle ready and irritated, the German aims...but it is the Italian who attacks.

The Italian (_useless, whiny, __**weak**_) merely evades the blow and twirls behind Germany before striking him clean at the back of his head. Immediately, Germany greets the floor with a grunt. Disoriented and unable to move, he can only listen to the sound of military dress shoes near his head.

(Later, Italy will tell him of the Silk Road, of the spices and the trades, and of meeting a much younger China who taught him pressure points and pretty smiles).

Germany expects a boot to the face. A mocking laugh. Derogatory slurs or whatnot.

What Germany gets is the feeling of his fellow Axis comrade sitting next to him, cross-legged and gazing down at him with a pitying expression. If Germany could see, he would have seen the eyes of the Venetian Empire, of Venice, of one of the successors of the Great Roman Empire. But Germany cannot see. He cannot see how the war is stretching their supplies too thin, of the shadows that line his face, of how the military boots don't glisten as they should.

But Germany can hear.

He can hear the sigh (_of loneliness, sorrow, and of things best left forgotten_). He can hear the rustle of Italy's constant fidgeting, of the palpable silence between them. And then, Italy speaks.

He speaks of times long past, in languages long forgotten. It's both a reprimand, a plea. A song, a command. Germany wants to shut him up. Germany wants to listen. In Italy's words he can hear and see empires crumbling, of Nations being born and dying in a day. He can hear plans of owning every single part of the world, can hear the death knell of all conquerors before him.

The experience is as chilling as it is humiliating.

Italy is old—older than what Germany has given him credit for. Old enough—older enough to have lived when the Great Roman Empire breathed his last. Old enough—older enough to have been the Venetian Empire, master of the Silk Road and of the trade. Italy is old—older than Germany and he knows how all wars end.

And that is how Japan finds them: Italy cross-legged and flat on the floor.

With a whoop of delight, Italy begs the Asian Nation for a mug of steaming coffee or perhaps a glass of wine. Japan obliges (cup of tea in hand), Italy is satiated (cup of coffee newly finished), and Germany allows a stroll outside.

As he walks ahead of the foreigners, he can hear them trade tales of ages gone by too quickly. Their eyes are nostalgic, they're quite calm and well-mannered.

(_Germany finds himself straining not to march with precision with his boots_).

Behind him, they speak.

And for the first time that morning (and after all those meetings) he listens.


	4. Little Brother, Little Bother

**3\. Little Brother, Little Bother **

Date Written: _January 3, 2019_

Date Posted_: March 30, 2019_

Characters: _The Roman Empire, Romano, Veneziano_

Summary: _Romano gets slightly jealous of the foundling that Rome just happened to come across. _

Notes: _References "Of Splendor and Riches", but there is no need to actually read that one-shot if you don't wish to._

* * *

He doesn't quite have a name yet; he is still just a foundation, an imagining of what might be. His people, loud and hard working, have yet to realize a vision of who they are. For now, he makes do with the titles that his supposed grandfather, the Great Roman Empire, bestows upon him.

Romano.

Of Rome.

There is a sense of something more within that name—a call to greatness, the inheritance of the heir apparent to the throne. The successor of a legend, of an empire. He is one heir out of many, the Roman Empire tells him fondly. But he's the one who has the bequeathed title, the power that the Roman Empire has displayed on many occasions. Of his many siblings of which he has met and fought on primitive battlefields, he is the greatest.

And then comes the little boy fished from the sea.

He is small, he is weak. Not at all fit to bear the title of Rome's successors. The young one can barely toddle around without tripping. His skin is far too fair, far too unused to the rough labor of land. During winter, the waters from his birthplace rise and try to steal him back.

Rome firmly grasps the young foundling in his arms, as the boy's hacking spews out water—water from a sea that has yet to be named and traversed. Water that nestles around his heart and fills his lungs.

The successor apparent remarks that the foundling will not last the century, if even that. The Roman Empire looks upon him with century old eyes, and, for a moment, the heir tenses for retribution. Instead, the much older Nation places a heavy hand upon his head and speaks with a wisdom and power that he has yet to witness in his kin.

"You may fight with your siblings, Romano. You make take their land, cut off their dynasties, steal their riches." The hand on his head grows heavier still. "But not today. He is weak and he may very well die before my time. But you may not feast on his writhing flesh or suck the marrow from his bones. He will be strong yet, just like you and the rest of your siblings, but for now, you will let him rest."

For a moment, the heir sulks in self-imposed isolation as his predecessor coos over the young one's cries.

.

.

.

Rome leaves him with the young child in his care. When prodded for answers, the Nation claims that he wants to check on little Romano's neighbors. _Isn't that exciting? Perhaps I should bring back a little brother to make up for his absence? Or a little sister to play with?_ Romano kicks him in the shin, _hard_, and Rome ruffles his dark waves of hair.

"Be strong, little one."

And Romano pouts because the only little one here was obviously the squalling mess with barely anything to his name (_which is funny because he has yet to have one_).

Once the Roman Empire has gone, Romano remains.

It's under the cover of moonlight that Romano creeps towards the foundling's resting place. Seconds of observation become an hour's contemplation. As the violet blush of twilight melds seamlessly into the rosy duskiness of morning, Romano takes action. Slow at first, but with quick strides, he comes close to the foundling's resting spot. In a fit of shivers, the foundling had been swaddled in an assortment of blankets and spare cloths due to Rome's generosity.

Romano bites back a smirk. The blankets would serve another purpose.

It didn't take long for the young heir to grab the excess cloth and force the mass upon the young child's face. For a moment, nothing happens…

And then, he struggles. Desperate for air, desperate to live, the foundling fights. To Romano's amazement, the foundling manages to cuff his ear even when he is suffocating and blinded. Still, despite the foundling's strong struggles, Romano is older, more experienced. Within a few moments, the little boy swaddled in white ceases his struggles.

Dead. The little one is dead.

And Romano is satisfied.

Truthfully, he had not done so with malice. If the Roman Empire was so adamant in believing that the child is special, then the child must first prove himself. All Nations, regardless of perceived race or gender had one major ability in common. If belief in them by their chosen humans was strong enough, then death was merely a few minutes to a few day's rest—depending on the injuries inflicted. If belief in the foundling was strong enough, then he deserved to live.

It was easy as that.

A tense few minutes passes.

And the boy gasps for breath.

"Took you long enough," Romano mutters.

.

.

.

When Rome finally comes back from whatever war he had been waging, he is pleasantly surprised to see that his young charges are nestled together in a single cot. The elder holds an arm loosely on the waist of the younger. Truly, an adorable sight.

Rome was about to leave again when he heard a sleepy murmur.

"Nonno, his name is Felicianus…too lucky and too happy to be alive."

And the war-hardened warrior, the Great Roman Empire, smiles as he beholds little Felicianus, child of the sea. And then, he takes in the sight of his heir.

But.

Wait, no.

No, he has heirs.

And the Roman Empire smiles once more.


	5. A Fatal Sort of Tipsiness

**4\. A Fatal Sort of Tipsiness**

Date Written: _January 3, 2019_

Date Posted: _April 6, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, England_

Summary: _Veneziano, as most Nations are wont to do, dies._

Notes: _Headcanons on how Nations die, how they come to terms with dying, etc. References the infamous Medici family._

* * *

Nations can't die.

At least, not in the sense that humans are thinking.

And yet, at the same time, it kind of is.

You see, a death of a Nation was a weird topic to even think about, much less research and discuss. It was just one of those things that were quite normal for beings of such unimaginable fortitude and longevity, but far too incomprehensible for normal humans to understand.

To Nations, the idea of death was in and of itself more of a hindrance in day to day life instead of the ultimate end that humans kept waxing poetic about. Death for Nations simply didn't last. Death was something that occurred...and then stopped occurring when Nations felt that they should come back.

However, one must not confuse such ideas with the implication of immortality.

Nations passed with time; how much time that had to pass, even China didn't know.

That being said, when Nations "die", they don't really undergo the process of decomposition and whatnot. The body may appear to have died, but it was more of a matter of stasis so that whatever magic or inherent biology that the Nations had, it would assess and rectify the damage as soon as possible. While stronger and far more durable than humans, by virtue of centuries' worth of war and death, Nations can fall prey to mundane, almost comical "deaths".

Stabs in the right places, car crashes, eating the wrong foods…

In layman's terms, it was basically a period where the body went into "shutdown" mode and thus rebooted itself when it felt ready.

So, it wasn't too much of a surprise for one North Italy when he found himself lying face up, arms at his sides, on a—

Was this a gurney?

No, he could feel the cold metal underneath his long fingers, the flimsy material of a hospital gown adorning his body. But…underneath he was naked? Truthfully, he was quite all right being naked, it was just _where _he was being naked that raised a few alarm bells. After all, streaking naked in Switzerland's house was different, than, let's say, parading around in all of his bare glory at the Pope's funeral.

One was simply for fun and the other was simply a death wish.

Nevertheless, his body was awake and he was unharmed—so far.

First, he examined his outermost extremities (_did he really have that many calluses on his fingers? that was a surprise!_) and then he checked his mental capability. _One and one made two, Rome was the capital of Italy, and polenta was obviously the better choice for food in his house. Obviously. _Once that business was sorted out, the Italian moved into a sitting position.

The symphony of creaking bones and the rush of blood moving and coursing through his head greeted him as he swung his legs over the table. Ah, must've been one hell of a death if he was still feeling disoriented even after whatever magic that resided within all Nations reclaimed his body. Or, perhaps, he might have died senselessly.

However, that still begged another question.

Why had he died?

"Took you long enough!"

Italy paused in the middle of his perusing to look up. Seated a couple meters away from him, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and North Ireland appraised him with a cool stare. Ah, Italy now remembered.

There had been an international meeting held in London—one that was to be held for a week. If he recalled, the British nation had recommended a few nice restaurants and pugs to relax in after they settled their affairs. Some Nations preferred to dine in their hotels while others took to the streets. Italy had been feeling a little ill—there was a bout of Acqua Alta—but had relented to attend a bar along with some of the other Romance Nations.

They had eaten the food (_either two bland or too dull_) and drank liquor to their heart's' content. And that…that was all he remembered. Had there been an accident? An attack?

Italy rolled his shoulders back and asked, "Nothing had happened, I hope? You don't look too concerned."

Either it was due to the cold temperature within the room or the fact that the northern part of Italy had the audacity to singsong a little in the Brit's presence, but the British Nation looked even more irritated. Figures. Most, if not all, Northern European Nations were known to be a little frosty.

There was one remedy that Italy knew always worked on such Nations: sunlight.

And wine!

And women!

It's too bad that English women were very hard to sway—

"—dead for eight hours because you were too stupid—"

Ah. England was opening and closing his mouth because he was…talking! And if the Mediterranean Nation didn't know any better, he could almost hear concern from the scruffy haired blond! My, perhaps he was still dead?

"—found a frightening cocktail of chemicals laced within the glasses—"

So his glass had been laced with something? That brought back memories of the Medici family…such times of corruption! Of wealth! Of cruel backstabbing and of murder! Those were the days. Pity that England only cared about bureaucracy and making sure that the coroner did his job by not reporting his death—

Ah, yeah. He died.

Honestly, you would think a Nation as old and experienced as he would know that his drink had been poisoned, but well…Italy did want to have a good time. Shame it landed him on a cold table newly naked. The idea wasn't as arousing as it should have been.

"—idiot! You're not even paying attention to me, are you? No wonder Germany—"

And he was still speaking. One could only take the British accent for so long before snapping. Best rectify this problem immediately.

"England! _Amico_!" With a speed that most humans would have described as super sonic, the Italian ran into the blond's personal space and flung his arms around the taller Nation. "No need for all of this talk, si? If you're worried, then say you're worried about me! No hard feelings about dying on your lands!"

He was speaking the truth. Both Nations had declared war or had been on unfriendly terms with several of their neighbors from time to time. Italy could forgive dying on foreign soil seeing that politically speaking, they were on amicable terms.

Italia Romano was another story.

Almost as if he were turned to stone, the blond stood steadfast underneath the Italian's unwavering grasp. But Italy began to squeeze. Tighter.

Tighter.

_Tighter_.

_**Tighter**_.

Until—

"Bollocks, fine! I may have been a little worried, but that is solely because I don't want to miss any of your exported goods! All right!"

"Ah, _Inghilterra_! You do care!"

"And I can't believe you came from the dead tipsy!"

Was he tipsy?

Italy thought nothing of it.

Death to Nations had always been a weird topic.


	6. On the Shoulders of Giants

**5\. On the Shoulders of Giants**

Date Written: _January 5, 2019_

Date Posted:_ April 13, 2019_

Characters: _China, The Roman Empire, Veneziano_

Summary: _Serica allows his trading partner from the West to visit. A small child sits upon the brute's shoulders_.

Notes: _China is referred to as Serica, one of the easternmost nations that was known to Greek and Roman cartographers. Serica often refers to just North China at the time. As most people know, you can reach Serica through the Silk Road. However, despite this aforementioned route, trade was usually conducted through a series of mediators (one of which was Parthia, the northern part of modern Iran). I have a headcanon that Rome and China had a sort of friendship, but they didn't always interact because they were busy with their own affairs. Also, this is probably not my best work, I had scant time proofreading and I'm not sure if I characterized China that well. Oh, well._

* * *

China had many names over the past four thousand years. He had been known as _Serica_, _Cathay_, and sometimes, the _Land of Silk_. Those days had been long gone and passed. Today, in his native tongue, he is Zhōngguó; to the rest of the world, he is known as the People's Republic of China.

Once, a long time ago, harking back to the eras of empires and budding civilizations, of newly awakened peoples and small Nations, Serica was visited by a man from the West.

Well, if one could even call him a man.

Serica's neighbors had told him tales of an Empire bursting to the brim with territories. They talked of towering pillars of strength, of a language that flowed, but was spoken with power. They talked of barbaric religions, of laws that would shame themselves in front of his people.

His neighbors also spoke of trade. Of the power that could accumulate from material wealth. Serica, even with all his distrust for the Western brute, could not deny himself an opportunity to attain wealth.

So, perhaps this is why Serica allows this trader from the West to visit. Him, with his too curly hair and unshaven face; he was more fit to rule over savage beasts than many civilizations. Atop the uncouth warrior's broad shoulders, a young child busied himself with looking upon his surroundings—eyes appraising the splendor with childlike curiosity.

The Empire of the East was no fool. He knew a Nation when he saw one. If he were to hazard a guess, the little Nation must have been a province…possible two to three centuries at the oldest. He probably wouldn't last longer than a couple more decades, especially if Rome were to fall.

He will. Serica already knows this.

When Rome decides to take a break from their rousing trade agreements ("_No, you can't conquer my land! And no! I am not a woman!_"), Serica mentally relaxes.

Unfortunately, Rome leaves his brat behind ("_Just watch him for a few minutes, Serica!_"). Small and weak, the young Nation might have seemed, but even the most unlikeliest of creatures could fear predators. Instead of ignoring him, Serica takes it upon himself to analyze the brat—the foreigner wasn't worth much, but it would give him something to do in the meantime.

The child has lighter hair than his predecessor—skin is fairer too. The clothing he wears is a stark white, completely opposite to Serica's preferred red. As if sensing that the much older Nation is observing him, the child looks at him square in the eyes and giggles.

He actually giggles.

"What are you laughing at, child?"

Instead of sobering and acquiescing to his elder, the boy actually increases the volume of his merrymaking and smiles cutely at the Nation.

"You talk funny!"

Serica balks. "Well, for your information, I think that you sound funny as well!"

The scion of Rome gasps, "Really! I sound normal; Grandpa's been teaching me Latin."

When Serica can offer nothing more than an unimpressed stare, the young child decides to do something else.

Something that Serica swears is an act of pure psychological warfare.

Without much regard to culture and physical boundaries, the young child yawns and starts settling against the elder's side.

"And what do you think you're doing?" Scandalized and completely out of his depth, Serica wishes for nothing more than the young Nation stopping his incessant need for physical stimulation.

The boy tries to explain. "I didn't sleep yet!"

The boy yawns again, cutely, before burrowing further into the Nation's side. The smaller Nation sways and lets his head fall onto the elder's lap.

"We've been travelling for so long and I'm so tired and-and-and—"

Despite himself, Serica brings the boy into his arms and has the boy rest his head onto his left shoulder. The boy, intuitively, snuggles closer (_if it were even possible_) and heaves a small sigh of contentment into Serica's crimson robes.

The small child is weak, but Serica can sense some sort of power and potential within the boy. Serica won't lie. It's weak and his earlier thoughts plague him: the boy won't last longer than the century.

However…

The Eastern Nation rubs a hand on the young boy's back and hums a melody that the boy can never hope to understand.


	7. New World Discoveries

**6\. New World Discoveries**

Date Written: _January_ _7_, 2019

Date Posted: _April 23, 2019_

Characters_: Veneziano, America_

Summary_: Veneziano and America meet for the first time._

Notes_: I did a little research. Apparently, America and Italy first had relations established in 1840 (but was apparently suspended because of the lynching of eleven Italians in New Orleans, Louisiana in 1891). At this time, both Nations are under a bit of public upheaval. At the time, Italy is undergoing the Risorgimento (the unification of all Italy, which was rife with struggles and war) while America was busy setting up the grounds of the 1860s Civil War period due to their acquisition of new territories in the west and south and the unresolved issues concerning slavery._

* * *

Veneziano scowled a bit to himself as he entered the hall.

Once upon a time, he would have been passed over for representation, but his siblings insisted that since he had so much experience dealing with Austria and other European powers, he should be the one to attend the meeting. When he petulantly asked why, they merely pointed out the atmosphere that defined their shared peninsula: bloodlust for one unified Italy.

Unfortunately, Veneziano was not pleased—but that could be easily attributed to the buzzing in his skull and a dryness in his throat that wine couldn't sate.

These were the effects of having war in the inherited lands that he shared with his siblings.

Regardless, when greeting his fellow European Nations, the Italian pasted a bright smile on his face—a sight that just annoyed Austria, but had others cooing at his childlike nature.

When international meetings convened, they weren't exactly "national". Really, it was more of a clandestine get together of the more popular and powerful of Nations. Well, that and Nations who wanted to actually throw their hat into the proverbial ring for whatever machinations they were planning. In short, Veneziano was already bored and only looked forward to what his fellow Nations were planning on arguing about today.

Indeed, as he took a seat in a lavishly decorated room, he could spot a few major powers running about. Most of them were European in origin—some neighbors that he had consistently traded with for centuries, others were those who attacked him and vied for his title of the King of the Mediterranean. (_That was actually of his own invention, but he at least dominated the Adriatic when he was still just the Republic of Venice_). Others, still, were Nations he had never seen before.

Take, for instance, the young blond teenager (_child, still so much a child_) who was talking with Prussia and a few other Europeans. He had hair the color of pure gold and of the harsh, beating rays of the noonday sun. His eyes, once Veneziano happened to sidle past and sneak a glance, were the clearest pair of sky blue that he had ever seen. Not even the paints that he had so dearly used to attain such beautiful views of the sky could compare.

Upon asking a bemused Belgium, Veneziano realized that the young stranger was in fact the former colony of the British Empire.

Shortly after his declaration of independence, the former colony became the United States of America—a little too long of a name if Veneziano were being honest, but it sounded _powerful_. In fact, if Veneziano remembered correctly, the young upstart had tackled his former benefactor, pushed Spain and France out of their territories in the New World, and had begun conquering land west of his holdings.

The child was a troublemaker, but he had the makings of an empire.

Veneziano shook his head ruefully at the young man who was busy tapping his fingers against the polished surface of a table. Goodness, the young man had ambition and endless amount of talent. In fact, Veneziano could have sworn that the United States reminded him of his grandfather. Perhaps if he looked closely...no, he should greet this newcomer himself.

As Veneziano approached, the young Nation looked up from his musings and caught sight of the Italian. Immediately, there was a friendly smile that showed off a dimple on the left side of the American's face as he seemed to swoop forward and into the Italian's space. Once more, there was a small rueful sort of grin on Veneziano's face as he let the American shake his hand a little too enthusiastically before etiquette demanded that they end the shake soon.

Good grip, Veneziano thought to himself he let his hand rest against his side. A little too enthusiastic, but it's to be expected from someone so young and not used to the culture on the other side of the continent.

"Hello, nice to meet you!" The United States of America rocked back and forth on his heels, clearly delighted that he was making the acquaintance of a new Nation. "I'm the U S of A! But you can call me America for short. How about you, friend?"

"You can call me Veneziano!" The small smile turned pained as he thought about the war that was being waged in his land. The Italian didn't know if he would retain his spot as a Nation alongside his siblings—his name could easily change to become something else. Furthermore, he didn't know if he would even survive the unification process. However, it was his people wanted, right? "But that might change soon, I suppose."

There was a somber note weighing down his voice that the American, despite his youthful appearance, seemed to have picked up. He, too, seemed to be battling his own inner demons as he seemed to appraise the older Nation with something akin to curiosity and awe.

"You're...you're Rome's grandson, right?" America smiled broadly as he seemed to connect whatever dots that were in his head concerning the Italian. "He was this totally awesome dude who pretty much conquered most of Europe! I've heard so many stories!"

Despite himself, Veneziano found himself smiling gently at the young one. His enthusiasm was infectious, and frankly, he needed whatever optimism was presented to him in times of great struggle.

He, almost shyly, asked, "You've heard things? From whom?"

At this, the blond's eyes, seemingly clear as a summer's day darkened to a hue comparable of that to the early transition of twilight. His form slumped, shoulders falling as if he was burdened by some great weight. For humans, such a motion was imperceptible, too lightning quick and subtle for their poor eyes to track. However, for a Nation who lived among the hotbeds of intrigue and for centuries, he knew the signs. America was plagued with some vestige of his past...and if the Northern Italian put two and two together, well—

"Ah...my old caretaker, good ol' Britain."

So, he was right.

Quickly, Veneziano flapped his arms up and down, as if embarrassed by the sudden admission of the truth. (_In truth, he felt for the boy, but international meetings were not the place for heartfelt condolences_). "So, sorry! Forgive me, Mr. America! Why not talk about other things?"

Stunned, the American looked down at him from such a height before a loud laugh rumbled from the lowest part of his chest and traveled out of his mouth. The force of such a raucous laugh had the blond doubling over in his fit of laughter—a scene that Veneziano enjoyed greatly. Most of his Northern neighbors were too stuffy and rarely showed such a childish side.

Veneziano quite liked this new Nation.

"Mr. America? That's a first!" America wiped stray tears out of his eyes with the back of his hand, his face still showing signs of his delight and excitement at this new friend. "It sounds so strange when you say my name like that! I sound so old!"

Another fit of raucous laughter.

"Strange, how so?"

"Dunno, man, I never understood why you guys liked calling me America and stuff. Seemed kinda outta nowhere, ya feel?"

"Ah, you see," Veneziano couldn't help but chide the younger Nation, "you were named after one of Firenze's explorers: Amerigo Vespucci. Forgive me, but it sounds equally as strange to call you by a name that is the latin form of an Italian."

At that, sky blue eyes widened.

Was he in shock?

"Dude, does this mean I'm part Italian?" The Italian's face must have showed some sort of depth of discomfort and bemusement because the American immediately held his hands up in placation. "No, wait, I don't mean it like a bad thing, but...you're like the birthplace of my name, Mr. Veneziano! That has to get me some street cred at your place!"

Veneziano found himself inwardly smirking at that train of thought. Ha, as much as he would have liked to claim Amerigo Vespucci as his own, it was Firenze who birthed and breathed life into such an explorer. It was a shame, he would have liked to have this American look up to him as such. It was deeply sobering that in the midst of the unification process that—

Well, that's another thought for another time.

"He was a Florentine, _caro_. When I return home, maybe I'll tell dear Firenze that you admire her child so."

"_Caro_? That a bad word or something 'cause that's not cool, bro!"

As Veneziano listened to this newfound Nation prattle on and on about several of his interests, the Italian found the pain that had been wreaking havoc in his head fade into an uncomfortable hum.


	8. Enclosed Spaces

**7\. Enclosed Spaces**

Date Written: _January 17, 2019_

Date Posted: _April 27, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, Seborga_

Summary: _Two brothers get into a fight and the third brother kicks the both of them into the basement. Even more fighting ensues._

Notes: _I just wanted to experiment what would it be like to write a fight scene._

* * *

There's nothing strange about seeing any of the personifications of Italy being held against their will. After years of being torn apart and being bossed around by powers greater than them, it was only natural that they adapt to abduction and imprisonment.

But that was during stressful periods like wartime.

During times of duress, their personal interests didn't matter—their fears, their boundaries, their human selves didn't matter. All bets were off when their lands were surrounded by all sides and their children (_their life blood and soul_) were under attack. No matter how much either of the Italian personifications hated the idea of bending to another's will, they would push through for their people.

The same could not be said now.

"This is so stupid!" Romano growled under his breath.

A couple of hours ago, Veneziano, Romano, and their youngest brother, Seborga, had decided to organize a dinner for themselves. It was a standard, home cooked affair that consisted of the usual banter between North and South with some side commentary from the micronation. Unfortunately, one of the major personifications of Italy said something (_what was it? no one remembers_) and the other half retaliated.

Pasta was thrown.

Sauces were splattered every conceivable surface.

And all three brothers were very pissed.

In the wake of all the commotion, Seborga berated both of his elders for wasting food and rendering the kitchen unusable.

Wasn't Romano the one to always preach about the sheer stupidity of wasting the fruits and labor of their farmers?

And wasn't Veneziano the one to mediate the peace?

After the scolding, all the brothers set to work to cleaning the area, but Seborga wasn't done. When all was relatively tidied, the micronation dragged his elders to the door of the basement and bodily threw them inside.

After a threatening demand of "_Forgive each other, or no dinner or breakfast for the both of you!_", the elder Italy brothers quieted and stared at each other.

And then, they, without any verbal cues, walked to opposite ends of the basement and sat down with a huff. They stayed that way for almost an hour before one of the brothers began to fidget and grumble under his breath.

One who only knew of the Italian personifications by first impressions would think that Veneziano would have been the first to crack. Even when under attack, he was prone to bouts of rocking back and forth on his heels, twiddling with his thumbs, or humming quietly to himself. Even some of his own men complained that he drew unnecessary attention to himself and that it was nigh impossible to not get irritated at the Northerner.

No, the fidgeting, foot tapping, and incessant muttering came from the elder. Years spent under Spanish rule, of centuries working out in the fields, had rendered the older Italian to balk at the idea of being held in captivity for too long. Walls were threatening to close around him in a tight noose while the ceiling was just aching to collapse and bury him under the rubble. He could feel it.

"You could at least try to relax." The northern brother said in a tone so dry, Egypt could have said it.

"And you can at least try to stop being such an idiot!" With a muffled curse, the Southern Italian placed his forehead against the cool wall. For a moment, the sudden change in temperature soothed him.

Opposite his brother, Veneziano watched in disinterested fascination. There had been times when they had been captured and forced in imprisonment together. It wasn't the first time that Veneziano had seen his brother so petulant.

"_Dio mio_, _fratello_, let's kiss and make up, _si_?" Veneziano scooted closer to his brother, but not close enough to be within range if...things were to go metaphorically go south. He continued, "Segorga probably has a big bowl of pasta waiting for us—"

"Shut up."

"—and I bet if we have time, we can walk around and talk to pretty ladies. You would like—"

"Shut up!"

"—to flirt with a charming girl, no? There was a cantina near—"

"For the love of God, Veneziano, shut up already!" Romano turned away from the wall and faced his stupid little brother. The force of Romano's explosion had the Venetian awkwardly scrambling away—only to be hindered by the sudden thudding of the wall against his back. The older brother saw the retreat—the action lit the fire that stoked the flames of resentment within Roman's heart. "You always do this—always with the pretending that everything is all right! Well guess what, you bastard! You can't just keep doing that because, surprise, life isn't all about charming people to getting what you want!"

Veneziano was silent—an even bigger provocation than if he had prattled on about the ladies waiting for them in the plaza.

"And you get that stupid look on your face…do you like pretending—" _lying_ "—that everything is all sunshine and rainbows? You're a goddamn moron and I HATE YOU!"

Veneziano fully faced his brother at that, a bright smile on his face.

But, there was an edge to his eyes that had Romano's back stiffening in apprehension.

Softly, so softly that even the faint notes of _pianissimo _could barely compare, Veneziano said, "What a coincidence, I hate you as well."

And then.

At that very moment.

Romano snapped.

There was one thing that the entire world agreed on and it was that the Italian brothers were prone to pacifism instead of violence. Maybe years ago, perhaps dating back to centuries or even a millennia ago, they would have been quick to throw spears and slash with their swords. Nowadays, they fought with their tongues as old as their fallen grandfather and as ancient as the earth itself.

Nowadays, they had no reason to fight.

Except when they were all alone with wounds that had been left to fester and leak pus and blood.

Romano would like to say that he got the first punch in.

But little Veneziano (_who was __**taller**__, who was __**better**__, who was __**favored**__, who was __**stronger**_) happened to swing with a fist and sweep with his feet.

Down went Romano.

_But._

Down went Veneziano because if one half of the Republic of Italy were to fall, then the other would be sure as hell to drag down his brother.

Punches, however uncivil and uncouth as they were, quickly devolved into animalistic howling and scratches.

Such handsome faces and warm inviting smiles were slashed with red dripping down their wounds. Their eyes were narrowed into slits; glaring was better than seeing clearly that they were both hurting, both in the wrong.

They were Nations.

And Nations never thrived on peace alone.

It was pure instinct that had Romano slamming his skull onto his Veneziano's forehead.

It was vengeance for exacting even more pain on him that had Veneziano slamming his knee into Romano's chest so that his older brother would gasp in pain.

For a moment, they stopped and regarded each other with cold eyes, trying to look for any sense of weakness.

They breathed raggedly, their shoulders were sagging under the amount of pain that they had to endure from their blows.

And then—

"I don't think the pretty ladies aren't going to like what they see if we continue on like this."

Romano threw his head back and laughed. "Veneziano, you're an idiot!"

Veneziano screwed up his face in indignation. "And you're not as handsome as you like to believe!"

"Oh, come here you—!"

Romano threw himself atop his brother and embraced him in a rough headlock and began grinding his knuckles onto his brother's head.

"Ahhh! I yield!"

And so, when Seborga finally visited the basement a few hours later ("_A few girls found me cute and gave me their numbers, so screw you!_"), he found them lying cuddled against each other, a look of contentment on their faces as they napped.

Perhaps not all was forgiven, but for Nations, this was as peaceful as they could get.


	9. Two Euros and a Smile

**8\. Two Euros and a Smile**

Date Written**: **_January 24, 2019_

Date Posted**: **_May 4**, **2019_

Characters**: **_Germany**, **Veneziano_

Summary**: **_Germany loses his wallet**.**_

Notes:

* * *

It wasn't often that Germany felt paranoid about visiting his friend's house. How could he? Italy was a gregarious fellow, always cheery and smiling. The times that he appeared to be annoyed, or god forbid angry, were few and far in between. Although his government could certainly use a little work, he was still a Nation who had a larger economy than most and had several booming industries. It must have been a century or so since they first met and the German was always excited to see the sights that his friend had to offer.

However, despite the light atmosphere, the German still couldn't help but feel the slightest hint of apprehension as he walked alongside his friend.

You see, whenever he patted the pocket that was supposed to have his wallet, he found absolutely nothing.

Absolutely.

Nothing.

The German Nation always made it a point to always have a couple of extra Euros on hand in case there was an emergency: paying for a friend's meal (Italy), bailing a friend out of a fine (Italy), or if a friend desperately needed the cash for reasons unknown (Italy).

Actually, now that he thought about it, he seemed to dote on Italy a little too much.

Regardless, his pocket was empty and his financial safety net was gone.

Did he happen to misplace his wallet? Had someone robbed him?

Neither of the two seemed likely since A) he was organized to a fault and B) he had been with Italy the entire day. How could have anyone robbed him when not one, but two veteran Nations had kept both eyes open for any potential thieves as they strolled throughout the streets of Rome? Yes, it was quite obvious that Germany was a tourist, which made him a prime target for thievery, but still...you would think that his large figure and general German-ness would have stopped someone from getting sticky fingers around him.

Germany was still pondering the issue—and trying not to look too overly foolish as he patted down his sides and front in vain for his lost wallet—when his dear friend Italy skipped up to him.

"_Germania_!" Italy waved his arms and hands about—almost as if he were one of the windmills in Don Quixote's signature work. "I have two big bowls of gelato waiting for us at a cafe, come! Let's eat!" At that, the Italian began tuning out the blond's protests and opted to drag him down the street.

They must have been quite the sight. Two men walking around: one with an air of frivolity and innocence and the other with a look of absolute dread. Perhaps it was Germany's paranoia acting up again, but he tried his utmost to lower his voice and cover up the burning in his cheeks as he once again reasoned with the Italian.

Or.

At the very least.

He tried to.

"_Italien_, I just lost my wallet," the German explained with an increasing tone of annoyance and worry. "Perhaps it would be better if we start looking for it now rather than—"

His friend turned to him; his small smile was now tinged with a look of remorse.

"Oh, really?" Italy waved his hand as if to brush the matter away. "Well now, don't worry! We can go looking—"

Germany shook his head and came to an abrupt halt. Italy, who had been continuously hauling the German behind him as if he were a reluctant dog on a leash, came to a stuttering halt by nearly falling onto the German's side.

"_Italien_," Germany began again. "I don't think you quite understand. All of my cards are in there. My money is in there. I know you don't have money on you. How are you going to—"

A hand on the blond's shoulder, combined with a serious look on the brunet's face, stopped the German in his tracks.

"It was never lost, _Germania_." With a swift movement, the sneaky Italian reached into his pocket to reveal—

"My wallet! But why—"

"Ve~! I decided to borrow your money for today since I'm completely broke, hahah!"

"Y-y-you pickpocketed—"

The Italian shook his head. There may have been a serious line of concentration on his face, but his eyes radiated with mischief most commonly found in youths hundreds of years younger than him.

"Borrowed! None of that stealing business, _Germania_! Now come, our gelato will melt!"

Even in the midst of his friend basically pickpocketing him for the chance of getting an icy treat to escape the heat, Germany could only chuckle ruefully to himself. It must have been a century or so since they had become friends and Italy still had the ability to surprise his northern friend. Now that his apprehension had abated (he really doted on the Italian too much to be healthy, but he'd rather not think about that), he lightly cuffed his friend on the ear.

"And why am I the one to pay for this superfluous venture?"

Italy rubbed his ear with a wince, but brightened with childish amusement. "Because you're a tourist, I'm hungry, and the gelato will melt. Let's go!"


	10. Cultural Mismatch

**9\. Cultural Mismatch**

Date Written: _January 28, 2019_

Date Posted: _May 11, 2019_

Characters: _Japan, Germany, Veneziano_

Summary: _Japan meets Italy for the first time in the beginning of World War II._

Notes: _Actually, the Italy brothers did meet Japan a little bit before WWII (I'm pretty sure there was a comic panel where it has Veneziano reminiscing on how...withdrawn Japan was). However, I decided to play around with Japan and his expectations. As you can see...the results are very ironic and funny. Just take this little fic with a grain salt._

* * *

Japan wasn't too keen on preparing for his first meeting with his fellow Axis member. He had already spoken with Germany, and much to his surprise, the meeting had gone on as planned. On this fine occasion, they had discussed agreements and plans that would not only bolster whatever plans Germany had in his sphere of influence, but also in the Pacific Theater. However, as much as Japan would have liked to continue the conversation on that same topic, they were, above all else, Nations. Nations were wont to talk about other Nations...which meant that they talked about their siblings and close neighbors.

Some of their opinions ranged from the deplorable to outright admiration. Jokes were exchanged and wry comments were cause for a small smile that neither of the two could have imagined growing on the other Nation's face. Soon after, the focus of the conversation drifted towards their fellow Axis member. It was at that specific topic that had Japan inquiring about the whereabouts of the Italian. Much to his embarrassment, Japan admitted that he had little reference or knowledge about the Italian Nation.

The Mediterranean, Germany had said, was flighty, imaginative, but extremely cowardly. Right away, Japan knew that relations with the Mediterranean Nation may not be as smooth as his newly acquainted camaraderie with the German. Japan confessed that he had heard a few things, but information concerning Italy was sparse. Back when he was still young and on good terms with his brother, China would tell him about the Silk Road and his dealings with one of the most irritating Nations he had ever met.

The Great Roman Empire.

If it was to be believed, Rome had fathered many children, all with the intent to take over and continue his legacy. The offspring had grown into states, republics, and regions. After the Italian Wars, Germany had stated with just as much aplomb as if he were discussing the weather, the offspring had dwindled to only a handful.

Nations knew what that meant.

In order to achieve power to stay in power, you had to fight for it. Most, if not all the time, Nations killed their brethren. After all, no one wanted to die, and in Italy's case, none of the Roman spawn wanted to lose Rome's inheritance.

It was very rare for beings of their kind to willingly give up power—to let go of their identity and eventually make like dust in the dying sun's rays. For some, it could be seen like a coward's death. Why run when you could fight? Nations were meant to devour, to conquer, to make others capitulate to their will. If a Nation were to lie and roll over, then yes, their lands and people were ripe for the taking if they didn't want to take responsibility.

"Ah," Germany coughed lightly, "but the Italy we're meeting today is the Northern part of the country. The Southern half is attending to domestic business."

Was it Japan's anxiety or did he see the normally stoic German end curl his lip at the mentions of Southern Italy? Best not to ask, not when their alliance was still new and relations were as fragile as a newly hatched chick's wings.

But back to the point.

North and South? And the North was visiting? Perhaps both the North and South were too powerful to fight each other for the whole of their inheritance. Perhaps both of them feared losing their inheritance if they decided to fight. Was it some sort of political alliance, a marriage if you will, between the two regions?

It was a bold move.

To have two sole heirs managing one household seemed naive, foolish even. One of the major powers would backstab and potentially absorb the other's power. Wait a minute...Japan thought some more before his wisdom caught up to him.

However, he reasoned to himself, if one of the two were to fade, then the other would surely keep their predecessor's inheritance; thus, ensuring that the Roman legacy would always remain in the hands of a direct descendant. They kept each other alive due to sheer ruthlessness.

Slightly amazed and horrified by such tactical brilliance, the Asian Nation found himself nervously fiddling with the cuffs of his uniform. It had been a while since he had encountered a power that could cause such mental discomfort. To have such a Nation as an ally with a pedigree as esteemed of the once Greatest Empire the world has ever known...it was a daunting idea. Briefly, he pondered the idea of meeting both of the Italian heirs in the flesh, but he quietly dismissed it.

No, it was already a pleasure to meet with Northern Italy. To ask for more would be simply too childish of a thought for him to entertain.

And so, he waited with hands clasped behind his back as he waited for the final Axis member to arrive.

"You're late," Germany's voice rang out. "You've been keeping Japan and I—"

"Oh my, was I already so late? I found myself caught in the sights of some pretty—"

Japan had turned to face the Italian. Despite the overly exaggerated movements and sudden entrance, Japan was still fascinated. The young man was clad in a stylish suit, which accentuated his good looks. The classic Roman features (long nose, sculpted cheekbones) was partially obscured by a cheerful smile and a wide eyed gaze. Although his observation was brief, Japan didn't see the offspring of the world's greatest empire. No, he saw—

"Please to meet you, _Signore Giappone_!"

Why was he rushing towards him?

And, without further ado, Japan felt the Italian take his face and—

Gods above!

Japan found himself slapping the over enthusiastic man away from him. The black haired man may have been short in stature and too old to have strength to do so, but he happened to manage.

A dozen and a million thoughts raced through his head. Was this psychological warfare? Such a bodily way of greeting someone… What kind of monster does that to his allies? Petrified by the power that stood before him, Japan slowly stepped back.

No...it was not retreat. It was…

He was just collecting himself and amassing information about Italy.

If North Italy was so conniving...then what was the Southern half like?

Behind Japan, Germany boxed Italy on the ear. "Idiot! In Japan, the people there bow; they don't kiss each other on the cheeks and hug!"


	11. Rest Notes and Oil

**10\. Rest Notes and Acrylics**

Date Written: _January 28, 2019_

Date Posted: _May 18, 2019_

Characters: _Austria, Veneziano_

Summary: _With the rise of the internet, Austria likes keeping in touch with his friends via video calls. Sometimes, he paints._

Notes: _I have a little headcanon that because Austria is so lazy at times, he took to technology like a fish in water. A few other Nations who also love technology are Japan, America, Canada, etc. Those who aren't as for technology: Prussia, England, France, etc. (These are just based off the characters themselves and not the state of the Nations themselves)._

* * *

With the creation of the internet and the widespread availability of technological devices, Austria often found himself quite liking the inventions very much. Unlike most Nations (like Prussia) who had a harder time adjusting towards these savvy advances (that man would _**never**_ give up his journal writing), Austria naturally adapted the advancements that ultimately helped him…make life easier and more comfortable.

And no, it wasn't like advanced technology was made especially for him. That was the best part, from what he could see. Anyone could use it; _anyone_ and _everyone_ could benefit. Technology had come a long way and by God's green earth, Austria was going to use it for all it's worth.

So, it came to no one's surprise when Austria often resorted to Skype or other platforms to discuss business, politics, or other matters. For one, Austria felt it was far more personal than sending a cordial email with all the appropriate messages. No need for that courteous, polite nonsense that would have prevailed in centuries past. For two, neither of the parties would have to waste time and money moving from one place to another. Saving money was always a plus in Austria's book (_and_ in others'). Finally, Austria could, theoretically, spend more time with those he liked most.

With Hungary, they would often drink tea on their respective sides of the screen and talk about the past.

With Switzerland, they would hold polite conversation while Liechtenstein would ask Austria about his opinions on her newest sewing project.

With Germany, Austria would watch him bake while trading traditional recipes.

With Spain, Austria found himself fondly telling the Iberian to kindly get his economy together and to stop sleeping! It never worked, but both parties got a laugh.

Sometimes…sometimes, he would call Venice. Long before North Italy was the representative of half a Nation, he was merely a Republic. He had been King of the Mediterranean, the trader who imported for far too low and exported far too high. Even after Napoleon had reduced Venice to a busk of his former self, Austria couldn't deny that the Serene Republic had flourished well into the modern world.

Sometimes, Austria would think about the time Italy lived in his house. He remembers the time when little Italy, still the citystate of Venice, was working under him. Those had been prosperous, happy times. But, of course, France had to corrupt the rest of the continent with his revolution. Those ideas had tainted the Mediterranean Nation. Because of that, Austria had to bid his once lackey goodbye.

And now?

"Austria! So good of you to talk to me!" A loud, but friendly voice interrupted his thoughts. As Austria came back to his desk, he could see that the deceptively young man had set up shop in front of a music stand. The resolution on his laptop didn't have the best quality, but the Austrian could see the blurred outlines of music sheets scattered with the telltale markings of music notes and signatures.

"I see you've been preparing for this lesson." Tone dry, Austria pointed to an easel he had placed nearby. Elsewhere, on the table, a vast array of paintbrushes and oil paints rested on top of the newspaper-coated surface. All of them were newly bought and just aching to be used.

"As have you," Italy remarked upon observing Austria's spread. "Shall we flip a coin?"

The brunet man scoffed at that offer. Any coin that passed through Venetian hands would surely sully the integrity of the money decision—which, of course, would result in a very smug Italian and a poor loser Austrian. The sparkling that could only hint at mischief within the young man's eyes did little to diffuse the notion.

Decisively, the much taller Nation grabbed a paintbrush and nodded towards his counterpart.

"It would be far more honorable for me—" Here, he could hear the scoff in Italy's cough and feel the Nation roll his eyes. "—to volunteer this time around. Shall I get started then?"

"Of course! But remember, gentle but sure strokes!"


	12. Reading Stones

**11\. Reading Stones**

Date Written: _February 1, 2019_

Date Posted: _May 31, 2019_

Characters: _Austria, Veneziano_

Summary: _Veneziano gifts a neighbor with a strange sort of eyepiece._

Notes: _Canonically, Austria has no need for glasses—he only uses them for his talent aspect of his character. Historically speaking, glasses were formed when someone created a nose bridge between two reading stones. These reading stones (hemispherical lenses) were placed atop of texts to magnify letters should they feel the need to read more clearly. In fact, reading stones were first discovered and used by the Romans. Glasses, on the other hand, made their first appearance in Pisa, Italy in the 13th Century._

* * *

Austria stared down at the gift in his hands. The Austrian had been busy tidying his house (a stupid chore that he barely tolerated), when one of his neighbors to the south had decided to visit. Much to his surprise, it was one of the successors of the late Roman Empire. After the usual go around with pleasantries and light conversation (that the Italian had initiated with _**more**_ enthusiasm than Austria could ever hope to stomach), Venice had cut to the crux of the matter.

Veneziano had come to gift his neighbor with a little invention that was never seen outside of Italian borders.

When asked, the Merchant Nation of Venice grudgingly admitted that he hadn't made it, per se, Pisa had, but it was near his region, anyway! Besides, Pisa wasn't nearly as powerful as him, so it didn't really matter where it originated anyway. Besides, shouldn't Mr. Austria be spending less time where he had gotten the gift and worry about wearing it?

Further questioning revealed that someone had been experimenting with two reading stones one day and had decided to join two of them together. Austria didn't think that the joining of reading stones could have possibly warranted this much fanfare—the Austrian even mentioned as such.

Venice childishly stuck his tongue out. "You're such a killjoy, Mr. Austria! This could be the next best thing!"

"Be careful not to presume too much," Austria lightly scolded. "What will you do if I don't like the gift?"

The Merchant Nation rolled his eyes and continually gestured at his gift. (_Quite rudely_, if you asked Austria).

The Germanic Nation hoped that the Italian would get an extra bout of acqua alta later that year, but he retrieved his gift from the specially wooden box that Veneziano had also taken with him.

Really, it looked like any sort of reading stones. However…

The hemispherical lenses were framed and joined at the middle by a rod (or was it a wire?). Why was that? He turned to the Italian and was deeply amused when he realized that this new invention was supposed to be worn on the face atop the nose. Wouldn't that make his face look like a sight? Could that be it?

Hmmm… Austria began to suspect if Veneziano held malicious intent. Could it be a prank of some sort? But the auburn haired Nation did seem adamant and offended at the whole 'origin' debacle…

Austria continued to hesitate.

Venice must have accurately surmised his neighbor's attitude because he looked at him with clear brown eyes, looking like he was about to cry if Austria refused him.

A small seed of guilt settled and took root in the Austrian's stomach.

Really now, Austria groaned in abject misery, he was much too indulgent at times.

"You look so distinguished!"

Before Austria could berate Veneziano for, again, presuming a bit too much (he would be the one to judge how he looked, thank you very much!), the Venetian shoved a book in front of the Austrian's face. The tome had been opened to a random page, the lettering was absurdly miniscule, but—

"Oh my."

Oh my, indeed. After Austria had placed the reading stones on the bridge of his nose, the letters could be seen as clear as day!

And, when Veneziano shoved a looking glass in front of him, he looked quite—

"What is that hideous thing on your face! It looks like your already small eyes have gotten smaller!"

—handsome. He is handsome.

Damn that Teutonic Knight!

"This," Austria pointed at the gift, "was from Venice _and _I think it makes me look unique."

Veneziano beamed with smug pride at the Austrian's compliment while the Teutonic Knight's face fell with guilt—he always had a soft spot for the Italian.

"Your face—" The albino tried to retort, but Austria threw the wooden box at Prussia's unsightly head.

Due to the reading stones, his aim was accurate.


	13. Of Waste and Despair

**12\. Of Waste and Despair**

Date Written: _February 1, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 1, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Germany_

Summary: _Hidden in a crate of decayed produce, Italy ruminates on life. _

Notes: _Just my own little spin on that first short that kickstarted the series._

* * *

The crate reeked of rotting produce.

Normally, Italy would have gagged at the stench and after a good few seconds of taking in the ghastly aroma, he would have a stern talking to the transporter in charge of such poor quality vegetables… He would have been furious—such a waste of beautiful produce! He would have felt righteous fury in place of his farmers, for the crops that were lovingly and tenderly brought to life under their watchful eyes. He would have taken one whiff—nay! One look at the sad little crate and he would have stomped away from whence he came.

Yet, this was not one normal day.

Normal days would have been brimming with bright sun. Normal days would have people milling about with smiles on their faces and songs bursting from their lips. Normal days had him wandering from town to town, cantina to cantina in search for wonderful wine and gorgeous women.

Normal days were happy.

This.

This was not a normal day.

This was not a happy day.

Italy was not acting normally.

Inside that wretched, rotting hellhole that once housed his prized tomatoes, Italy sat.

He didn't sing, he didn't talk. His youthful features had hardened into a calm only the toughest of men and the most corrupt of politicians could ever hope to make. He was curled onto himself, hoping that perhaps he could return to the state of a small child.

Inside that filthy, decaying excuse for box of produce, Italy tried to sleep.

Perhaps, if he tried hard enough, prayed hard enough, the rotting odor would subside. Maybe, if he squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, the fumes would go away and all that would be left would the be the distantly humorous memory of anger and sadness at such a spectacle.

Inside that box, Italy wept.

He wept for the loss of such wonderful produce, of the hard work that was wasted on ungrateful people. It was stupid, he thought. It was not stupid, he seethed. Back and forth, his mind tried to reconcile himself with the reality that the smell that he was currently gagging on, he was immersed in it and he had done nothing, was doing nothing and—

Outside that dank, dark crate, Italy heard a sound.

Rhythmic, smooth. Yet—Italy canted his head to the side, his ears and other senses ready for other sources of simulation. The sounds… Closer. Urgent. Like...oh, like mosso to presto with precise 4/4 timing.

Closer still, the sound became progressively louder (_a crescendo to forte_).

Closer still, he could hear muffled swears.

Closer, ever so closer still, the odor grew even more imaginable.

And that's when Italy realized.

Perhaps it wasn't the crate that reeked of the godawful stench. The stench, the rotting… could it be? Could all of this senseless destruction be attributed to one factor? This unforgivable, nasty rotting all in one person?

Italy felt angry, scared, and—

The crate's lid jostled; the stench had increased hundredfold and Italy mistakenly gagged out loud.

"What?"

At that moment, Italy acted—whether it would result in betterment for himself and the poor produce that deserved better, he knew not. He simply opened his mouth to retort, to retaliate, to say—

"Hello to you! I am the box of tomatoes fairy!"

He was angry, but he would bide his time.


	14. Hidden in the Shadows

**13\. Hidden in the Shadows**

Date Written: _February 2, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 8, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _Italy is busy preparing for a World Meeting at his house when security reports something strange._

Notes:

* * *

He had been busy with preparations for a meeting with the rest of the European Nations. As was custom, Veneziano found himself dealing with the hotel staff while Romano called abroad or greeted their guests when they finally made it to Rome. It was during the finalization of seating arrangements when Veneziano heard the security personnel muttering about something.

One of the guest's children had gone missing on the premises.

When Veneziano, completely stressed and anxious about the upcoming meeting, heard about this, he was understandably concerned. Nations, no matter how old or how jaded they had become, loved children—especially if the children in question were those born within their respective Nations. They were sources of light, beacons of hope within times of great duress and sources of pride during peacetime. They could shine like the brightest gems when polished to their highest potential. They were the small cogs that made up the whole of Nations.

Children were precious and guarded.

And Veneziano was worried.

Once he had given a stern talking to the head of security, the Italian personification finished the seating arrangements and the assigned rooms for each of the incoming guests. Satisfied, Italy idly wandered into the kitchens for a cup of gelato.

After a cheerful conversation with one of the charming older ladies—

"_Grazie, bella! The gelao looks almost as lovely as you!"_

—the Nation headed to the lobby when he heard a strange sort of noise. His senses, already alert due to the distressing news of the missing child, were heightened to the point where he stood still and took stock of his surroundings. Perhaps it was a little silly of him to automatically go into full surveillance mode, but it was the principle of the thing. Even if the hotel was honestly safer than most areas at the moment (Nations were quite particular of where they were staying because dying in foreign territory was _not okay, __**thank you very much**_), the child had to be somewhere close.

Gathering his wits about him, the Italian Nation moved a little closer to the noise. The noise was like a small keening mewling that sounded scared and—Yes! Right there! Up close, the sound resembled that of a whimpering sound…

Veneziano, with his cup of gelato in hand moved to a little side room. Due to the positioning of the door and the lack of decoration that usually signified a more important door, he could only assume that the room was mostly unused. Or, at the very least, no one was there.

The young man then turned the handle and called out, "Hello! Anybody here?"

Sniffling. There was sniffling.

The stress seemed to melt away as the young man noted that it was as young child. Concern and relief flooded his form as he made his way to a light switch and flipped it on. Immediately, the room was lit with an almost a striking fluorescence. Once Veneziano blinked through the haze of tears that accompanied the stark brightness, he observed that there were a lot of cardboard boxes in several unorganized piles alongside a few dusty tables and broken chairs.

A strange room.

"It's okay, little one," Veneziano cooed.

The crying had quieted down, but the child would not appear. That was all right. He had time. With a sigh, he crossed into the room and plopped down on the flooring. A part of him moaned about suit he wore becoming soiled, but a stronger, more sympathetic side of him knew that the child was scared.

"Would you like some gelato?" When that yielded no response, Veneziano let out a little huff of breath; he was a little disappointed. But then, he took a decisive bite into his gelato and began to speak. "Oooh! Have you tried gelato, caro? So sweet, so yummy! It's like eating snow, but with frozen cream and sugar and—"

The thing that most Nations knew about Italy was that he liked to talk. Talk about sports—football! Talk about culture. Talk about art. Talk about food—pasta, pizza, sushi, wurst, and so much more. The young man would talk for hours if left unprompted for an unimaginable amount of time. However, when he spoke to his fellow countries, he only spoke to entertain, to settle disputes by adding stupid hilarity to a dredge of tension.

But, in the presence of a child, be it one of his own or not, he spoke with a low, melodic timbre. This was a voice that had raised morale for his troops, that chanted alongside the Pope in ages long past. It was a voice that calmed and soothed. Encouraged and emboldened. His voice rose and fell, as if he were singing a long lost lullaby.

He talked of his friends and family. He complained about work and how much trouble he was going to be in when his brother finds out he wrinkled his suit— "_He hates spending money on me_!" But mostly, he just talked of the most insane things until…his voice petered out.

And then.

He heard it.

It was the sound that signalled that end to every parent's nightmare: the low, even breathing of a child.

Carefully, the Nation picked himself off the floor and placed his cup of gelato (now empty) onto one of the tables. With his mission almost complete, he followed instinct and stepped near silently towards one of the far corners of the storage room. Behind a pile of boxes lay a small child no older than six if Veneziano were to hazard a guess.

He tutted a little at the sorry sight, but immediately took her in his arms and headed to the lobby.

He was going to have a talk with his security.

Just how could a small child hope to evade the best of his security forces?


	15. The Anomaly

**14\. The Anomaly**

Date Written: _February 3, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 8, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _A little discussion on how Italy as a whole is different from other Nations. _

Notes: _Contains references to the Risorgimento and Italian Wars. Artistic license was employed; I am not that well versed in Italian History._

* * *

Italy, not the Nation's representatives (_they were just as strange, nonetheless_), but the country itself, was quite an anomaly. There were too many divides, too many variations of the standard "Italian". Even the food and traditions differed from region to region. There was no unity back when city states had ruled supreme and sadly, there was no sense of unity today. How could such a beautiful country with a rich culture and proud history fall into disarray—a factor that still plagued the country today?

So, it was no surprise when it had been announced that in the Republic of Italy, two representations were at the helm.

One for the North and one for the South.

Of course, there were precedents for this; Italy wasn't the first Nation to have been governed by several parts of one greater whole. In fact, all countries weren't countries—not at first. A long time ago, they were wisps of ideas birthed from the maelstrom of ideals and the traditions of a like-minded people. Soon, these people evolved to form tribes, to become cities, to become more, _more_, _**more**_.

But a person to tribe to great Nation did not evolve seamlessly—or without great bloodshed.

Simply put, siblings of Nations never lasted long.

To become united and become something _**more**_, siblings battled, bartered, or simply lost their lives to their more dominant counterparts. It was rare for brothers and sisters to escape unscathed, to hold onto whether scraps of their own citizens (_their children_) and power as the other sibling still maintained their own power.

That never—_almost, but not quite_—happened with Italia Veneziano and Italia Romano.

Both had garnered the power and the children of the siblings in their respective regions.

Both, after the series of Italian Wars, had stood tall, equal.

There was never a successful precedent for two peaceful representatives to help share the burdens of a Nation. Germany had come about as a culmination of his vassals, America had warred with his southern half and won, and even in the Philippines, the northernmost island held the seat of power. But, the Italian brothers had decided, right after Venice had been annexed and the Northern brother, all alone in his region and not wanting to disappear (not yet_, not now, __**not ever**_), he struck an accord with his elder brother.

And perhaps war had denied Italia Romano of his faculties, or perhaps he was just tired. Maybe he already knew that tiny little Venice had outgrown his lagoons. Regardless, South Italy had decided to share the birthright with his sibling. (_And maybe, Romano didn't want to be alone with the Papacy and a few tiny states with little political power for company—but why? He was just as anomalous as his brother _).

The other European Nations, thirsty with the sense of impulsiveness, had watched with bated breath at the Italian Risorgimento. Would the offspring of the late Roman Empire finally fall? Would the regions within Italy fragment and split back to the small city states?

But just as Europe watched Italy, Italy watched back as well.

And Italy, weak, disoriented, but newly reformed, still had pride.

They built themselves up. From the rushed alliance of the first Great War to the subsequent repercussion of the next one, Italy was battered and bruised. Their people were angry. Their people fought for what they believed in. And in the end, with healing scars and with hardened resolve, they marched into the twenty-first century as one.

They were brothers.

They were an anomaly.

They were Italy.


	16. The Strange Man Upstairs

**15\. The Strange Man Upstairs**

Date Written: _February 5, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 15, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _There's a strange man upstairs who has fresh paint on his clothes and smells of freshly cooked pasta. _

Notes:

* * *

The child wasn't all too sure who the strange man in the apartment upstairs did for a living.

The child wasn't all too sure if the man _ever_ lived upstairs.

Sometimes, the man upstairs would stay for up to months at a time, joy and laughter ever present on his face. He would smile and say hello to his neighbors and disappear into his apartment with fresh paint on his clothes and smelling of freshly cooked pasta. Other times, the child would notice that the man would disappear for weeks on end. Those were the weeks when the child noticed that the building he lived in seemed to be so much quieter, almost sadder without that strange man's presence.

When the child asked his mother about the stranger upstairs, she said—

"_Don't worry about it, caro. He's a busy man."_

The child was unconvinced, but heeded the unspoken demand in his mother's voice. He was not supposed to ask anymore questions about the strange man who lived upstairs.

For a time, the child was absorbed in his studies and his playmates.

But that was only for a time.

You see, just a few days ago, the young child had returned home from school so that he could eat lunch with his parents. On the way back to his floor, he accidentally crashed into the man's tall legs, a small shriek announcing that he had fallen onto his rump. Much to the child's displeasure, the young man from upstairs chuckled before helping him onto his feet.

"In a hurry?" His voice, cheerful and chiding at the same time, shocked the small child to the core.

In all the time he had ever seen the man, the young child had never heard him speak. Sure, there were times when his parents might have uttered a good morning and the man must have surely responded in kind because his mother always said that the stranger had such good manners, but the child had never heard his voice directed at him. There were also times, sometimes, in the dead of night and when the child was trying to sleep, but could not, that he would wander towards the balcony and hear the most wistful voice.

It was both the most beautiful voice that he had ever heard, but the most sad. On those nights, the child would end up in bed well rested, but with tears staining his cheeks. To hear the melodious voice without the characteristic lilt of singing was an utterly strange experience.

The child didn't want to come off as rude, so he said, "Yes, sir!" And because the child was just as curious as any child should be at that certain age, he asked, "Why are you always leaving? Don't you like it here?"

And that man, that strange man who never seemed to stay still, whether it be in his apartment or in real life, bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet. His eyes held a sort of paternal warmth that the child usually associated with his father. For some odd reason, the child found himself comforted—he didn't find it all strange that this wonderful man elicited the same feelings of warmth and security that only parents could create. Perhaps, if given time, the child would have pondered such a strange occurrence, but he was still a child and that meant paying attention to what was happening in the present.

"Of course I do! What a strange question." The man laughed to himself before ruffling the child's hair. "Off you go for lunch. Hurry, or else your mother will yell."

The young child puffed up his chest indignantly. "My mother—"

Just then, there were voices coming from the staircase and he could hear his mother's shoes clacking down the steps. From the urgency of her steps and the annoyed mumbles, the young child could tell that she wasn't pleased by his antics.

"Seems that you are wanted." The man gave another grin, this time a bit more bashful to show that he was sorry before gently pushing the boy in his mother's direction. "Perhaps I'll answer your question next time."

The child huffed. "Fine."

And with one last wayward glance and a wave, the young child retreated into his mother's scolding embrace.


	17. Beneath the Surface

**16\. Beneath the Surface**

Date Written: _February 3, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 22, 2019_

Characters: _America, Romano, Veneziano_

Summary: _Romano's thoughts on America's new hobby. _

Notes: _It's canon that Veneziano is really skilled at fencing._

* * *

America, Italia Romano thought, was an idiot. The American was a young Nation, almost comically so when comparing his paltry experience to the wealth and power he had garnered over a short period of time. And quite like the young man his body impersonated, he was impressionable and flighty—the two such characteristics that could somewhat explain why he was aimlessly swinging around a fencing sword.

It must have been a slow meeting because most of the European Nations who liked fencing, along with a few dozen countries from other continents, began to ask for a demonstration. Surprisingly, the American was adept at the art and managed to gain the grudging approval of his peers. That grudging approval became excuses to challenge America to see if he could truly beat them.

However, most of those assembled had dispersed—America, if a little unskilled, was still too strong for even the most able-bodied. The only ones who dared go up against the determined young man were France, Prussia, Russia, and surprisingly, England.

One by one, America managed to sidestep himself into failure after failure. Fencing was a sport that dealt with agility and quick thinking. Clever and smart, America may be, but he relied more on strength than bouncing on the balls of his feet. Most of the matches lasted less than a minute, with Prussia—former mentor to America—managing to land a hit at thirty-six seconds.

Hmmph, Romano couldn't help but scoff. There was another Nation among them that could fence the little brat into defeat within a second if he so wished. It was too bad that he was taking a _siesta_—

"_Fratello_," Italia Veneziano mumbled through a yawn. "Is the meeting over yet? Everyone seems to be—" another yawn "—gone."

"If the meeting was over, I would have left your sorry ass for the wolves."

Dramatically, his younger brother wailed, "There are wolves!" and proceeded to tear up.

Idiot. They just don't let _anyone_ into hotel conference rooms.

He took a sip of his coffee and gestured to America, who was busy laughing off his defeats while recovering some tips from the aforementioned Europeans.

"If America were to… I don't know, pick up a new hobby like…" Romano feigned a 'thinking pose'. "...fencing, would you duel him?" The older Italian representative couldn't help but let a slow smirk spread across his features when he saw his little brother battle his intrigue. "I mean, the kid is so excited about his new hobby that he brought a couple fencing swords with him: foil, epee… sabre."

Did his eyes deceive him, or did Veneziano's eyes flash with murderous delight at the mention of sabre?

"Kid managed to hold his own against Prussia for a little over half a minute."

"Sabre?"

Romano shrugged. He wasn't paying attention at that particular battle, only the timing and the technique was of any interest to him.

He turned back to his northern brother and scowled. Veneziano was doing that _I-want-to-do-something-but-it-could-ultimately-hurt-someone's-feelings _face. He must have surprised those who would have gone up against America and deduced that the blond was probably not in top form.

Dio mio, his brother's heart always bled for the wrong reasons.

"Veneziano."

"Yes?"

"Beat his ass."

"_Fratello_, he is a _bambino_ and—!"

"If you don't beat his ass, I'm telling your boss that you like drawing cats all over your paperwork."

"That's not—"

"And I will grant Seborga independence so I can become his favorite brother."

Obviously, Veneziano was the stronger half of the nation, what with his industries and business opportunities, but his little brother was just dying to have a good reason to duel America.

"You're playing dirty, Romano."

"Beat his ass, _Venezia_, and then we'll talk."

And so, it was with a heavy heart (ha!) that Romano watched his little brother worm his way into the Eurocentric circle and ask to "Pretty please, Mr. America! May I duel you?" that had little Venice bouncing like a little child, weapon in hand. Most of the European Nations present knew of his brother's skill, but it would appear, from the lazy way America played with his own sabre, that he was going in blind.

"What an idiot," Romano talked into his cup of coffee when the opponents faced each other. "That kid is going to die."

And the match began.


	18. From the Ground Up

**17\. From the Ground Up**

Date Written: _February 6, 2019_

Date Posted_: June 29, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _Francesco, a newly widowed man, contemplated the future of his people as they settle the marshy lagoons east of the mainland. Along the way, he meets a small child who isn't as innocent as he appears._

Notes: _Basically, Venice was formed when barbarians began flooding into the mainland after the Romano Empire fell, which forced many Italians to disperse across the waters. Soon, those who settled into the marshy lagoons began to make permanent homes in the lagoons, but there was still the problem of flooding and trying to create permanent homes. So, they drove wooden stakes in the ground and began to build from there. These wooden stakes would be the reason why Venice still stands today—albeit, it is slowly sinking. When exposed to the salty water of the Adriatic, the wood hardened and rivaled the strength of that of concrete. However, if the wooden stakes were to be uncovered by the water, bacteria would begin to eat away and cause mold. Venice officially came to life on March 25, 421 A.D._

* * *

When Francesco, a newly widowed man, followed his neighbors to the marshy lagoons east of his ancestral lands, he knew that settling into the new environment would be a trying experience. Many years he had lived, but there was nothing more tiring or horrifying as to flee his precious lands and create a new life for himself. It would take courage. Furthermore, Francesco knew that it would take a lot of hard work and dedication in order to produce a suitable settlement.

What he didn't expect, however, was the presence of a little boy who happened to spring out of nowhere.

The child was strange—almost eerily so—but by no means a bother. Upon Francesco and his brethren's arrival, the small child had taken it upon himself to greet them happily with a broad smile on his fattened cheeks. So enamored with the boy, most seemed to almost dismiss the idea that the boy had spoken of no parents or guardians. The young child couldn't have been older than four, but his mannerisms and speech belied a nature that seemed to be far older than Francesco.

Perhaps it was the strange way the boy behaved—like the mannerisms and speech that Francesco had noticed—or perhaps it was the strange feeling that perhaps...perhaps did the boy didn't _need_ to have parents. For a newly widowed man, he found himself disgusted that he could have thought of such a thing. Children were meant to be protected, not to be turned out into the wayside.

When Francesco gathered the courage—for shame, _why should he have to ask in the first place_, _he was the adult_—to ask the child about his guardians, he found himself saddened into speechlessness. The child had spoken of an aged grandfather who died years ago, an older brother who he had never met, and several other distant relations who treated the young child with malicious intent.

Concerned, Francesco tried to pry more information from the child, but found his attempts cleverly evaded and blocked by the aforementioned child.

At any other time, Francesco would have pushed the matter further, but there were more pressing matters to be addressed first.

The issue?

The barbarians from the north were busy pressing upon Francesco's ancestral lands. All of them, his neighbors and himself, had to escape the increasing boldness of the barbaric invaders. Luckily, the geographical features of their settlements on the lagoon favored the mainland natives. Despite their being a menace on land, the barbarians had been cowed by the waters of their new home.

It was a small triumph in the face of adversity that surely rivaled David's Goliath.

Francesco and his people had escaped invasion, but how were they to survive their new home when everything was covered in water?

"Sir, what are you doing?" The young child tugged at Francesco's trousers. His eyes, huge and inquisitive, looked up at the widow beseechingly.

There was a sort of energy within the child, something that the older man couldn't explain. It seemed like the atmosphere thrummed with some sort of charged current, like the air after lightning bolts lit the sky.

The child, for some strange reason, was rocking back and forth on his feet. He was both excited and apprehensive about something.

Francesco worried for the boy.

However, that didn't stop the old man from smiling indulgently at the small child and hoisting him into his sun baked arms.

"We are going to make our home stronger, little one," the older man said in reply. He gestured to the team of men who were driving stakes into the marshy land. "We can't possibly have a city that can't stand, can we?"

The young child, serious and all too out of place on his face, looked at all the construction. His deep brown eyes followed the team of workers who were assigned an assortment of jobs—all of them were focused on making a city that could hopefully withstand the waters of the lagoons.

"No, we cannot." The boy agreed. "B-but—"

The old man turned to him again, a look of fond exasperation smoothing his features as he took in the sight of the child.

The child's eyes were rapidly filling with tears; his chubby hands clutched the cloth of the man's shirt. As a (former) father, he knew that comfort and quiet was best needed. The child seemed to be distressed by something that Francesco couldn't quite place.

Francesco didn't like seeing the boy so unsure of himself.

Finally, the child looked up at Francesco while tears streamed down his cheeks. "What will happen when the invasions stop? What then? Will you leave this place?" His breath hitched. "Will you leave me?"

For a moment, Francesco could only gape in surprise at the young one's whispered question. How did a young child with unmarked innocence know about the invasions? When the boy seemed to think that Francesco was about to confirm his fears, he tried to squirm away from Francesco's warm embrace.

The old man chuckled.

"Little one, you have nothing to fear. Many of us would rather make our home among the fish than bow down to the invaders from the north."

A spark of hope ignited within the deep depths of the boy's eyes.

"Really? You won't leave?"

The words tumbled out of his mouth without much consent from the old man's rational mind. "Your home is with the rest of us, little one."

"My home…" Chubby fingers pulled the boy's body closer to the older man's warmth and safety. "...is your home?"

There was no hesitation.

"This place is now _our_ home."

The small child's lips quirked up at that before Francesco set him down. Immediately, the child trotted away to chat with some of the men who were busy measuring the stakes.

The sounds of laughter and jokes could be heard as the day slowly began easing into the cool shadows of early evening.

Yes, the old man thought. Venice would surely be a sanctuary for the refugees of today's invasions and the home for their descendants for generations to come.


	19. Sister Republic

**18\. Sister Republic**

Date Written: _February 6, 2019_

Date Posted_: July 6, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Genoa_

Summary: Veneziano confronts one of his ambitious siblings and puts them in their place.

Notes: _Before you say anything, I know that Genoa is a canon character and he's portrayed as a curly headed boy with a crown on his head. (Why? I don't know). Secondly, the confrontation between Genoa and Veneziano is a reference to the first of the Venetian-Genoese Wars (War of Saint Sabas from 1256-1270). To cut a small story short, Venice and Genoa were getting on each other's nerves by disputing over trade routes, land, etc. While Genoa tried to evade attacking, Venice employed naval forces, which caused a decisive winner in Venice's part. Furthermore, I mentioned Pisa a few times because n the War of Saint Sabas, Pisa sided with Venice. (Hence the reason why Veneziano has a Pisan dagger on his person...I don't think Pisa was ever known for its daggers or weaponry, but I have creative license, so there!). For further information, just look up the Venetian-Genoese Wars anywhere on the net and you'll see._

* * *

Venice looked at his sister, Genoa, before glancing at what appeared to be crates of spices and satchels filled with relics from neighboring countries. Although he was more than a foot taller than his younger sister, the fire in her amber eyes nearly cowed him. However, to say that he was shocked to see that his western based sibling was after his wares was a major misdirection. After Genoa had shamed her fellow republic, Pisa, on their shared side of the peninsula, she had set her sights on her older brother—a fact that Venice was more than aware of.

At this point in time, Venice had established a government and a trading empire along the Adriatic. Money was the main language he spoke and understood. Consequently, he was perhaps the strongest republic in all of Italy, a fact that annoyed the other _comunes_—Genoa being the closest in terms of power and ambition to Venice.

"Stealing my profit, Genoa? And I thought you had honor." The Venetian crossed his arms, a look of fraternal disappointment mocking her. "You're not going to grow any bigger if you keep on chasing after my greatness."

"Don't mock me." Her teeth were bared while her fists clenched at her sides. She had been so close to taking Venice's wares, but she had no idea that he would be present. _Idiota_! "We all know that you mark up the prices so high that you basically swindle the rest of Europe into bowing at your feet!"

The older republic shrugged, the carelessness of the action only serving to anger his sister further.

"Do I look like I have a care for how the rest of the world sees how I do business? My pockets are fuller and their homes are rich with culture." A smile that had too much teeth to be even considered kind settled on his lightly tanned skin. "Everyone is happy."

"I'm not."

"Should I care?" Venice shrugged again, smirking to himself when Genoa let out a yelp of indignation. If there was one thing Venice loved to do, it was tease his siblings over their lack of power that he so obviously possessed and flaunted. "I do believe that your happiness has nothing to do with me. Now go away before I punish you."

Genoa stiffened at that threat. Although she was just as ruthless and cunning as any Mediterranean Nation worth their salt, she didn't like engaging in violence. While Venice wouldn't bat an eye to resorting to unsavory methods to attain victory, Genoa was remarkably more keen on focusing on their shared rivalry over becoming the most powerful republic on their peninsula.

Stealing the competition away from Venice was more than enough for her.

However…

The curly haired child took one look at the gloating expression on her brother's face before swinging forward with a closed fist.

When Genoa struck, she struck fast and hard.

For a moment, Venice looked at his sister with dumbfounded shock. He had keeled over from the sudden lancing strike of pain before he abruptly straightened from his vulnerable position. Although Nations looked and acted like humans, their strength was often equated to that of a group of strapping young men.

Genoa could have killed a simple man.

But Genoa merely sparked the anger that would light the fire that blazed in the Venetian's soul.

Just when Genoa was about to steal away with her stolen goods, Venice stood up from his keeled over position and launched himself at his younger sibling. Genoa, who had thought that she could have accounted for all the variables, merely tried side stepping away from Venice.

Wrong move.

Venice may have been a trader in occupation and an artist at heart, but he was still a ruthless Nation.

And Nations, whether they liked it or not, fought for the good of their people and their interests.

And right now, Venice was interested in making sure that Genoa knew what she was getting into when she dared to attack him like that.

As Genoa tried to evade conflict from her elder sibling to the east, Venice had other plans in mind.

Hidden in the sleeves of his tunic, he had a little gift that he just so happened to receive from another little sister named Pisa. Like Genoa, Pisa was a maritime republic on the western side of the Italian peninsula. Unlike her sister, however, Pisa sided with Venice and had decided to bestow upon her older brother with a little surprise if Genoa's greed were to surpass even Venice's.

That little surprise was now slicing a slit into the expensive cloth that Genoa had foolishly garbed herself in.

A Pisan dagger.

"Y-you—!" Genoa stumbled to the ground, her tears falling down her cheeks as she tried to stem the bleeding from the shallow cut that Venice had masterfully bestowed upon her. It went without saying: if Venice wanted, he really could have killed her where she stood. "How dare—"

Something hit her across her jaw and had her head whipping back to the side.

She clutched her cheek in reddened embarrassment.

Of course, she thought. Of course that stupid Venetian had the gall to kick his enemy to the ground when they were already kneeling and ready to yield.

Without further ado, he bent down and angled his face in an almost apologetic expression. For such a tasteless display, he looked downright remorseful and penitent. However, Genoa knew him well enough to see past his innocent exterior: the Venetian was looking down at her with all of the haughty pride of one who was far too ambitious and cunning for his own good.

The auburn haired Nation looked down at his sister with the disdainful disposition one would reserve for the royalty gawking at the poor. So embarrassed and angry, Genoa had no choice but to hold her tongue and listen carefully to what her fellow maritime republic had to say to her.

"Genoa...I love you like a sister, _but_," here, Venice grabbed hold of her chin and began to squeeze the unblemished skin with his nails. "I want you to understand that I won't stand for any further transgressions." He squeezed even harder when his sister refused to look at him. "Do you understand?"

And Genoa, with the bravery and recklessness of newborn Nations with dewy eyed gazes, looked up at her brother with the look of one who has lost everything, but had the will to gain something, _anything_ for victory.

She spat at his face.

He stuck the Pisan dagger into her midsection.

And as Venice stalked away with what was supposed to be his rightful boon of the Mediterranean trade, the young Nation began to think long and hard on what she was supposed to do from there on out.


	20. Let the Young Ones Play

**19\. Let the Young Ones Play**

Date Written: _February 8, 2019_

Date Posted_: July 13, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, England, Canada, America_

Summary: Two old Nations go senile while their juniors have the time of their lives.

Notes:

* * *

It was nearing the twilight hours of evening—most if not all the representatives had gone back to their hotel rooms for a brief respite until morning. That would have been the end of this particular story, but England just happened to forget something really important. Something so important that England just had to walk back from the restaurant he was trying out (as was recommended by the host Nation).

That important item?

A bloody binder.

As was expected, England was not excited by such a prospect of coming back.

Unfortunately, when England had returned to the meeting hall, he saw America and Canada were busy—

"You hoser! You're cheating!"

"Hahahaha! That's what a loser would say!"

"I am not a—Aaaaaahhh!"

England left, knowing that he would be largely ignored—mostly by the loud American. Instead, he hurriedly grabbed his misplaced belongings and raced into the lobby as soon as possible. He was only seconds away from leaving out the glass doors when—

"_Signor Inghilterra_! What are you doing here so late?" In front of him, there was a young man grinning toothily at him. Like the blond, Veneziano was wearing a business suit and a frantic, yet friendly look on his Roman face. North Italy also happened to appear a little frazzled; there was a worried look in his eyes and crinkles in his attire. Clearly, he had forgotten one of his belongings as well. "Did you get lost? Because I got lost a few hours ago, but modern technology is such a magnificent—"

Much to his personal distaste, England had to cut the Italian short. Usually, he would have obliged him, but he felt that exchanging pleasantries at that moment would have been taxing rather than fulfilling. "Splendid, really! But if you would let me—"

Much to his utter astonishment, England found that the northern half of Italy would not budge from his much needed exit. Why was he blocking him? Some people would rather have a go at the bar or two before turning in for the night instead of...instead of whatever the hell was happening right now.

For once, it seemed that the oblivious Italian could actually read the atmosphere. He looked a little apprehensive and hushed, as if knowing that he was interrupting the Briton's evening. If England was being honest, there wasn't much he planned to do other than go back to that blasted restaurant and eat some dinner. Peace and quiet amid the sudden ruckus of his fellow Nations were more than enough reason to just go and be done with it, but alas.

Nations were always expected to be rowdy—even if they were supposed to be in diplomatic relations with each other.

Even if England didn't want to act polite and reserved—especially if that Nation in question was a French frog.

England shook himself out of his reverie to hear Italy say,"I know that this might be a bit much, but could you kindly direct me back to the meeting hall? I can only remember so much!"

The blond must have must have had a bleeding heart because he took one look at the Italian and began ushering him inside. It should have felt like a trying experience, but he was more than used to his fair share of disruptive siblings, unruly charges, and the like. At least the Italian was honest and polite.

Even if he did make a couple jabs at his cuisine.

Both of them walked to the elevator that sat in the lobby. Once settled inside, the blond pushed for the fifth floor, much to the exclamation of the Italian—"_Fifth! I thought it was on the third_!"—and the tired bemusement of the Brit. For a second after that, the auburn haired man simultaneously talked of everything and nothing at the same time.

"—and that's why Italians love talking and drinking coffee! _Signor Inghilterra_, why do you looked so constipated? When you—"

"Constipated," he couldn't help but gasp. "I beg your pardon?"

"_Sì_! You looked so disturbed about something and I couldn't help, but—Ohhhh!" The Italian interrupted himself. The elevator announced their arrival with a high pitched ding. "It looks like we're here!"

"Well, there's no need for me to accompany you any further." Hopefully, Italy wouldn't accuse him of not being a gentleman. He did, after all, technically did help him find his way back to the meeting hall.

Unfortunately, Italy must have seen right through him. Without any visible warning, he grabbed the taller blond by the wrist and practically dragged him back to the familiar doors, which, unfortunately, did little to disguise the unmistakable ruckus of his former colonies.

To England's great amusement, Italy had immediately looked away from the door and had surreptitiously moved behind the Brit, effectively becoming a barrier in case things went down south. Not that England imagined it would. His former colonies were a lot of things, but even they would try to keep the casualties to a minimum.

"Scared?"

"Are they… Are they fighting each other?"

Behind the closed doors, the sounds of whoops and cheers amid the cacophony of yelled swears and threats could be heard. There was a rush of footsteps, a few thuds (hopefully, from nothing breakable), and the sound of a…bell? Goodness, even the normally cowering Italian looked a little bit curious.

"No, they are simply acting like children." At that, the blond decisively walked up to the door and opened it up just a tad so that they could just make out the scene in front of them.

Chaos.

Complete and utter chaos.

Tables were upturned on their sides. Chairs were stacked on top of each other to mock the barricades of revolutions of times past. What was really surprising was that it appeared that nothing was broken. Already the scene was ten times weirder just by knowing that.

"What are they doing?"

England simply pointed.

Both North Americans were wielding makeshift longbows that they had crafted from old pencils, rubber bands, and sheer creativity. Both brothers had pencil cases strapped to their backs, as if inspired by the archers of old. Currently, Canada was perched behind a series of drapes while America was shooting at him from behind a table.

"Children, that's what they are." England shook his head. "I can't believe that they're actually countries, Nations in their own right."

Italy hummed a nonsensical tune—in agreement or rather to contest his sarcasm, England was not too sure.

"They look like they're having fun. Reminds me of when I had full access to the Mediterranean and kicked Turkey's ass so many times." The Italian looked blissful as he watched their mock battle play out. In his eyes, one could see the amount of experience, of history that he had witnessed.

Nostalgia.

Every Nation knew that feeling well. Decades passed in mere seconds while centuries flowed like a few days. Those who were old, had seen enough, could no longer feel the restraints of Time upon their souls.

Perhaps they _were_ Time.

Regardless, Italy looked upon them with a fond look before grasping the British Nation by the _wrist—again_!—and dragged him bodily out the door.

"And why—"

"You take things too seriously, dearest _Inghilterra_. Let them have fun. We were young once, why not let them make the most of it before they get too old like us!"

England sighed before nodding.

"With such wisdom, how could I ever forget your age?" How does anyone remember that Italy was so much older than him?

* * *

"Wait, Italy! Didn't you need to take something?"

"Ah, yes! I forgot what I forgot so I'll check during tomorrow's meeting!"


	21. The Floating City

**20\. The Floating City**

Date Written: _February 8, 2019_

Date Posted: _July 20, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Veneziano goes through a midlife crisis. Romano isn't taking any of that shit._

Notes:

* * *

"Hey, you're going to get yourself sick if you continue to lie there."

Veneziano grunted in reply. He felt so peaceful just floating on the surface of his native waters. The feeling of calm, uninterrupted coolness gently caressed his skin through his clothing and ruffled his hair… Honestly, why couldn't heaven be found on earth?

"Stupid!" Romano threw a small rock that narrowly missed Veneziano by mere centimeters. As the Venetian grumbled about the splash, his older brother barked out, "Get out before I take your car and drive it into the ocean!"

Even Romano's deep gravelly voice when angry could do little to dispel the younger Italian from his lazing about. Further threats concerning his clothing and his position of political and national power were made, but Veneziano refused to pay any attention. The call of the Adriatic was strong—Veneziano would be hard pressed to even think about returning to land..

However, if Veneziano could be described as stubborn and willful, Romano had an iron will and steely resolve. Stubbornness born from the same metal of the fabled swords of old could be seen as Romano swiftly kicked off his shoes, folded his pants as high as it would go, and then began towing his brother back to land.

For all his talk about surrendering and using peaceful—if ridiculous—means of ending conflict, the Southern Italian found himself battling his brother within the water. Years of tending to the fields down south had honed his upper body strength, a feat to which he used to his advantage.

On the other hand, Veneziano, for all of his quick maneuvers and cunning tactics, found himself barely keeping himself afloat, much less trying to subdue or evade Romano. Years of industry and sedentary living had slightly weakened his body; he lacked the muscles necessary to counteract his brother. After much useless splashing and accidental swallows of salt water, Veneziano finally relented.

Gasping, he managed to string a coherent sentence.

"_Fratello_! Why can't you—"

"Shut up, you inconsiderate asshole! I'm not going to let you get a cold when we have a meeting in two days!" At that, Romano maliciously dunked his brother's head back into the murky depths of the water.

For a moment, there was an exorbitant amount of splashing before Veneziano had the genius idea of driving his fist right into Romano's stomach.

"_Stronzo_!"

"You know," Veneziano murmured, "I should be the one saying that since you're the one who attacked me unprovoked."

"Actually," Romano hit Veneziano upside the head, "you're provoking me! If you get sick and I have to be the one to shoulder the burden of that damn presentation shit, I will do more than drown you in your favorite sea."

"But, _fratello_, we're both wet now, so why not make the best of it?"

"Are you trying to say that you want to further ruin our clothes—THAT WE'RE STILL WEARING! We would probably get sick and die just to—"

"To have fun! _Dio mio_, it's not like I'm asking you to drown me!"

"Drown?" Romano may have sneered at that, but he felt like something was amiss with the way Veneziano was looking too eerily at peace with himself. Did he swallow too much water? Perhaps Romano should just haul his own ass home. The meeting only warranted at least one representative from each Nation. But… it was such a hassle if it was all up to him! "Get up you lazy polentino before you drown for real!"

"Okay then."

For a moment, Romano was too flabbergasted to speak. Just as quickly, his shock made way for a dangerous concoction of worry, annoyance, and anger.

"The hell you think you're doing? Floating away for God knows how long and talking about drowning and not caring the next!" Romano grasped for something to say like he was fumbling with a bar of soap. "Weren't you excited to see your damn potato friends? What the hell happened to that?"

Veneziano cracked one eye open.

A slow, sly smile barely lifted the edges of his face as he casually remarked, "I thought you didn't like Germany."

Romano almost had an aneurysm by how stupid Veneziano looked and acted. Of course he didn't like that blond ruffian from the north. He was too much like his forefather, that one. Despite that, Romano loved his little brother and that meant he had to be okay with Veneziano's weird choice of friends. Not that Romano could do better—he happened to be close with America and Spain.

"And since when do you care how I feel about your friend, huh? I-I mean," the older brother frantically moved his hands in gestures quite familiar to those who were Italian, "let's get back to the point!"

"Which is?"

"Come off it, Veneziano!" Romano's furious expression startled the younger Italian so badly he moved too abruptly and sank. Once righted, Romano began to verbally box his ears. "You didn't come out here to just randomly waltz into the water! You came here for a reason so tell me before I personally do drown you and drag your ungrateful ass to the morgue!"

"I'm tired."

For a moment, both brothers could do nothing more than stare at each other: one pursed his lips; the other breathed gently. Romano studied his brother's dark brown eyes; they were born from a time no human could ever think about living through. They were kind and gentle, like a young child discovering the world for the first time. Now… now Romano could see that the clarity, transparency in his brother's eyes had become clouded and became murky.

Sad and not so sad at the same time.

Romano scoffed, trying to relieve the tension.

"You didn't seem all too tired when you punched me."

"For once you're being humorous while I'm trying to be serious." Veneziano straightened until he stood at his full height. Although neither of the two would ever admit it, Veneziano was indeed taller than Romano. He had never lorded it over Romano, but… "I'm tired and… I'm—no—Venice will not be for much longer."

"No."

Veneziano's eyes looked down at his older brother with something bordering on remorse.

"Venice will be consumed by the Adriatic. You know this, Romano, and when that happens…" His voice, although it rang with authority few would ever have the honor of witnessing, had drifted off into a lazy, if melancholic murmur.

Romano stood, tall and proud, like his mighty predecessor before him. His eyes flashed, a murky hue ever shifting between the gradients of brown and green before settling on a gleaming emerald. Even though he was the shorter brother, he moved closer, his presence alone reining his sibling into submission.

"No," he declared. And then he pushed his brother in the chest. Hard. "No," he said with more conviction. This time, the force of shoving Veneziano caused the younger Italian to stumble. "Fuck that shit. And fuck you."

The younger brother tried to speak, but Romano relieved him the courtesy.

"You're not going anywhere, Veneziano. You want to know why? Because you are not _Venezia_. A long time ago you were, but now you are also _Milano_, _Toscana_, _Firenze_. Or have you forgotten that you won half our birthright from the cold hands of our fallen siblings?" Romano paused, checking to make sure that Veneziano was still listening. "Once upon a time you were _Venezia_, but one upon a time I was _Napoli_. We are greater than the sum of our parts, Veneziano. But you are not just _Venezia_ anymore. No, you are North Italy and I expect you to represent all of your birthright with pride. You got that?"

"But—"

"I expect you to live not just for yourself, but also for me and our children. Capisci?"

For a moment, Veneziano looked at his older brother with awe. It wasn't often that the elder had decided to be nice. Heck, the last time he had done so was almost a decade ago!

"_F-fra_—"

"You start crying and I'll leave you to drown."

It was an understandable threat.

Yet, it was a threat that went unheeded as the younger Nation began to sob profusely into his brother's shirt.

And if Romano, once _Napoli_, once a village, once an idea, felt his own eyes burn in response, he didn't try to show it.


	22. Collapsed Creases

**21\. Collapsed Creases**

Date Written: _February 9, 2019_

Date Posted: _July 27, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Japan_

Summary:_ Italy tries to understand his fellow Axis member, Japan better. This entails a mission of observation and pleasant conversation._

Notes:

* * *

Italy had spoken with Japan a number of times, but not enough to fully grasp how the much shorter man usually acted. At the very most, Italy understood that the black haired man was often quiet and reserved. It frightened the Italian, but Japan was the most emotionless person that he had ever come across. In his book, that was completely abnormal.

So, of course, Italy decided that he should observe his foreign ally in greater detail.

During his first mission concerning his observation of Japan, Italy was forced (by Germany) to spar and train alongside the Japanese Nation. Although slight and lean in nature, Japan showed that he had a knack for hand to hand combat. He was also quick and agile—traits that had the Italian almost weeping with joy.

The Italian was about to challenge him to sword fighting, but Germany had quickly put an end to it, which left the Italian decidedly weeping with petulance. In explanation, the blond Nation revealed that they were halfway through the twentieth century. Guns and machinery were the necessary tools needed to win the war.

Japan must have seen the Italian's look of agitation because he offered a small, if a bit uncertain nod of his head.

While the training session left more to be desired (especially concerning the latter half of aforementioned training), Italy still counted it as a win in his book: Japan had emoted (even if such emoting was a hint of an iota of human emotion).

Italy tried spending more time with Japan, but that yielded next to nothing. He had only talked about the war and some other "safe" topics that it had Italy nearly sobbing from boredom.

Fresh out of ideas, Italy had decided to just simply read a book for the day. It was an old composition by an author long gone and forgotten, but to him, it was like reacquainting himself with an old friend. So engrossed with his book, Italy almost did not notice that the stoic Nation had entered into the same room as him. As the Italian peered through the pages of the weathered tome, Japan had taken to sitting down opposite to him, a sheaf of off-color paper held within his slender hands.

Because he didn't want to distress his ally, Italy kept his mouth shut and his eyes glued to his book. However, curiosity won over his other emotions. Without trying to look like he was trying to get a read on what the Japanese man was doing, Italy glanced at the corner of his eye to see that Japan had begun to organize his papers in some sort of pattern. After a beat, he began folding.

However, as quiet as Japan was, he wasn't able to disguise the sound of folding paper amid the relative silence of the room.

"Oh my!" Italy feigned surprise as he frantically waved his arms in happiness. "Japan! What brings you here?"

"My apologies—" For some odd reason, Japan's face began turning a tender shade of rose pink. "—Italy, it appears that I may have disturbed you." Gracefully, Japan moved as if to bow, but the auburn haired Nation quickly put a stop to that.

"No! I was just reading some boring old book. Tell me, what are you doing?" Excited, Italy pointed at the stilled position of his ally's hands. "It looks really interesting!"

Would he learn more about the island Nation?

For a moment, Japan's dark brown eyes stared at the Italian, almost as if he were trying to stare deep into the depths of his soul. Although, Italy was accustomed to direct eye contact, he was still unused to long periods of silence. It didn't take long before Italy began using his patented special power that made Germany bend to his will: overly large eyes that just so happened to sparkle with unshed tears.

"I see." Japan sat back down, as graceful as ever. "Please, watch carefully and then, I will explain."

Carefully, with deft motions and nimble fingers, the island Nation began swiftly folding the paper diagonally and then in half. Reverse. Inverse. In half again. Throughout the process, Italy could barely contain himself with joy. Japan was showing him something from his culture! Something that he probably hadn't shown Germany yet! It was only because he was too used to Japan's aversion of noise that he hadn't began peppering the man with question after question.

When only half a minute had gone by, Japan held up his finished product.

"A bird!"

"Yes. It is a crane and with expert hands, could be made to look more elegant and pristine." The eyes of the island Nation seemed to go hollow, almost even darker than it had ever been. He began fiddling with some of the creases on the wings. "Ah, I was not careful with the beginning folds."

Italy adamantly shook his head at that admonition, saying, "No! This is by far the best thing I have ever seen! Origami seems so fun and exciting! Pretty please, would you teach me? Oh, and can you also make other things too? I bet—"

As the Italian gestured all too expressively with his arms and hands, Japan just looked to him in gratitude. He had been meaning to get to know his fellow Nations more, but words and cultural differences had failed him. Now, he could see that Italy was earnest, if a little overenthusiastic.

"All right," Japan conceded. "I will help you. First, we will begin folding…"


	23. Odd Dreams

**22\. Odd Dreams**

Date Written: _February 10, 2019_

Date Posted: _August 3, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Estonia_

Summary: _Estonia is a little confused, but otherwise willing to hang out with Italy...until that one specific conversation._

Notes:

* * *

Estonia didn't think that he would spend so much time with Italy. They rarely ever interacted, much less became acquainted with one another. How would he, a mere Baltic State, manage to keep one of the G8's attentions long enough? That aside, the Italian was too flighty compared to Estonia's… overall blandness that Estonia never thought that he would hold his attention for too long.

That was until Estonia had to help the Mediterranean with his laptop. And the projector. And the projector screen. Basically, anything to do with technology because despite his youthful appearance, Italy was inept with modern advances in the human world.

Well, unless he was playing up the helpless factor instead of doing the job himself.

Actually, given how cunning Italy could be… No, he was fooling himself! Italy would never manipulate someone for something so trivial!

Regardless, after that terrifying debacle (for Italy), the Mediterranean had taken to Estonia like a Russian drinking vodka. The brunet had taken to listening to the blond with a wide eyed face, his curiosity over the other's culture never wavering. It was very flattering to have another member of the G8 other than his former master and America to talk to. In return, Estonia had also enquired about the sights to be focused within the other's household, but surprisingly, Italy had waved away his questioning.

"Estonia, you can always find things about me in pop culture and movies! It's rare to see the same courtesy extended to you!"

The blond wouldn't have called that a courtesy, but to each his own in how one would interpret certain things.

They had been talking about one of his historical sights when a brief knot of drowsiness overtook him. It may have come out as a yawn, but Italy automatically went into a panic.

"Estonia! It's only two in the afternoon! Are you sleepy? Did I interrupt your siesta?" Italy pondered that strange inquiry before asking another. "Is taking a _siesta_ part of your culture, too?"

Astounded by the sudden barrage of questions, Estonia took a few seconds to compose a reply.

Chuckling softly, he replied. "Oh, I just haven't been sleeping too well lately. I've been having the oddest dreams."

Intrigued, the Italian beckoned for him to continue.

"Odd dreams? Like… erotica?"

It was a good thing that Estonia had nothing to drink because if he head, he would surely spewed out the liquid. Unfortunately, his face was too pale to stop the sudden flushing of his complexion. From the tips of his ears to the rounded planes of his cheeks, he could feel a burning heat.

"G-god, no! I meant surrealism; like God talking to you about the existence of other universes and the like!"

"Hmm," Italy hummed, clearly nonplussed by the rejection of his earlier assumption. "Are you having a Jeanne d'Arc moment? Did God tell you to strike down you enemies?"

Estonia laughed.

"Not at all. He simply showed me a universe where everyone except me was turned into girls!" The Baltic sighed in an almost confused manner. "Apparently, he thought gifting me with my very own harem was answering my prayers."

Italy thought for a moment, eyes lost in thought.

Finally, he said, "So… softcore pornography?"

"Italy!"


	24. Countertop Counterargument

**23\. Countertop Counterargument**

Date Written: _February 10, 2019_

Date Posted: _August 10, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Romano gets stuck doing the dishes. Veneziano gets stuck eating his favorite dessert of all time._

Notes: _Canonically, Veneziano loves gelato, but he gets an ache in his stomach for eating too much._

* * *

Romano sighed, already tired of his younger brother's antics.

It had been ten minutes since he had lost the argument concerning the question of who was going to wash the dishes (_just how many times a week did Romano have to wash those damn things?_). It had been exactly nine minutes since Veneziano had filled a bowl with some homemade gelato. Eight since he had decided that he would rather sit on the kitchen counter right beside the sink than in the dining room like any other civilized person would. And it had been seven minutes since his younger, _immature_, _**ugly**_ brother had decided to hum some nonsensical tune while swinging his legs and eating his favorite snack.

After over a century of living together with him, Romano knew what the idiot was doing.

"If you don't stop…" the southern Italian threatened.

"What?" The northern half of their peninsula whined pettily. "I'm not even doing anything!"

Romano paused in the middle of scrubbing one of their pans. Slowly, and without much emotion, he turned to his brother and said, "I know exactly what you're doing and it's not going to work."

When Veneziano refused to reply in an adult manner (he just noisily slurped another spoonful of gelato), Romano flicked a few suds in his younger brother's direction. That had resulted in his brother squawking like a headless chicken before Romano stopped attacking him.

"_Fra_—"

"You deserved it." Another sud joined the one that rested on Veneziano's thigh. "Now get off the counter so I don't have to look at your ugly face anymore." He was already jealous that Veneziano got to eat his favorite dessert when he had to wash those thrice damned dishes. That bastard.

For a little while after that, it seemed as if the younger Italian personification would comply. Veneziano had launched himself off the counter and padded back to the dining room table. When all he could hear was the sound of obnoxious humming, Romano quickly busied himself with beginning the rinsing part of the process. Unfortunately for him, the sound of rushing water did well to mask the sound of incoming footsteps.

And then, when he was about to let all the suds down the drain, he felt a cold nose nuzzle the back of his neck. A startled shriek escaped Romano's mouth, but he abruptly stopped when he felt something colder parting through his lips.

It was a spoonful of his brother's gelato—not too icy, but firm enough to not have melted.

After his initial shock, Romano brought his elbow down behind him to where he guessed his brother's stomach was. "What the hell was that, you bastard?"

"Ow! I was just trying to help you!"

"With what?" Romano smacked his brother's face, ignoring how he was rewarded with a tearful gaze. "Geeze, you sneak up on me with that cold nose of yours—_did you stick your nose into the freezer?_—and then you start shoving shit into my face!" One of his hands accidentally dropped the plate he had been rinsing, causing a clatter on the counter. "Now look! I might have cracked one—"

Another spoonful of gelato had passed through his lips while his brother silently laughed at him.

Despite himself, Romano basically inhaled the spoonful alongside another helping that Veneziano thoughtfully placed on his tongue.

"You can't just bribe me—" Another spoonful was placed on his tongue. Romano swallowed hard before continuing with his tirade. "—with gelato just to calm me down."

"Then how come you've calmed down now?"

Romano stole Veneziano's spoon and began to gorge himself on Veneziano's sweet treat.

He didn't want to answer that particular question.


	25. Times Gone By

**24\. Times Gone By**

Date Written: _February 13, 2019_

Date Posted: _August 17, 2019_

Characters: _Hungary, Veneziano_

Summary: _Hungary comforts a young Veneziano when he comes to her in a terrible state._

Notes: _This is after the dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire._

* * *

She had been busy polishing a set of silverware at the behest of her Austrian master, when she heard a rush of footsteps. They were a light pitter-patter across the floor, as if the person was in a hurry, but still considerate enough to keep his steps light should the master of the house complain about the sudden racket. At the sound of such familiarity, Hungary placed the rag and the cutlery onto the surface of the table.

A young boy in the throes of budding teenagerhood stood in front of her, a distraught look in his eyes. Hungary gestured for the boy to come forward or to speak, but he kept silent. Without much prompting, he burst into tears. His voice, his lovely voice that could sing arias and operas into an enchanting stories interwoven within the tight structures of music, trembled and shook. He was so agitated; he could not speak of what occured to make him this way.

"Veneziano." She slowly stood up from her chair, the stuttering squeal of wood on wood temporarily assaulting their ears. "What's wrong?"

The boy, under the human façade of a budding teenager, immediately walked up to her and slumped forward, crashing into her form. Although Hungary had been a towering figure when they had first met, the young Venetian had swiftly grown and matured. At present, he was almost as tall as her. Even now, when she had enveloped him in her arms, he still ducked his head down low, as if trying to complete the illusion that he was younger than what he actually was.

For a moment, both stood in silence.

Hungary threaded her fingers, which were calloused and hardened from years of strife, through his hair. As always, whenever she had the chance, she marveled at the hues of amber, brown, and auburn. And that curl of his… Her eyes took in that errant strand of hair that refused to stay down and be maintained alongside the rest of his fine locks. Even when he was feeling down, that unruly curl stood tall.

Sometimes, she wondered if Venice was truly one of the main offshoots of Rome. Did he inherit the auburn locks, the curl? Or did he inherit the physique, lithe but still growing? Hungary often wondered, but she never dared ask. All she knew was that young Veneziano had been one of the few present to have watched Rome slowly collapse upon himself.

A small hiccup from the crying teen brought her out of her thoughts.

Immediately, she squeezed her arms just so and cooed a random lullaby that she had heard long ago. Her voice, unlike the Venetian's, was nothing to be proud of, but the affection and warmth that she exuded was more than enough. At her touch and lulling tone, the boy instantly quieted into a series of hitched cries and shuddering breaths.

They stayed interlocked in that warm embrace until the Hungary felt Veneziano strain against her figure. Reluctantly, the Hungarian allowed the boy to withdraw his arms. As she did so, he brought both of his palms against his eyes so that he could wipe the excess moisture away. His shoulders shook, but he no longer hiccupped or slumped forward into her easy embrace.

"Feeling better?" She held perfectly still, ready to embrace or move away.

With a watery smile, the boy stepped back and thanked her profusely. _No_, he was quite all right. _No_, he was doing better, thanks for the concern.

And _**no**_, he would rather _**not**_ talk about it.

Maybe later.

And so, Hungary went back to polishing the silverware.

(If perhaps, then, she thought of a little boy in black, she definitely did not let her hands shake).


	26. Prince Among Men

**25\. Prince Among Men**

Date Written: _February 13, 2019_

Date Posted: _August 24, 2019_

Characters: _Romano, Genoa, Veneziano_

Summary: _Genoa wants a piece of that Venetian trading empire._

Notes: _This chapter (like Ch 18) is all about the Venetian-Genoese Wars. In the end, after four wars with Genoa, the Venetian Empire happened to win due to a technicality. Hence, the reason why Genoa is so salty. Also, I kind of cheated. Veneziano has a major role in this chapter, but he doesn't really appear...but I'm halfway through my goal of fifty chapters, so who cares! Ha!_

* * *

Napoli liked to think that he was the oldest. In appearance, he clearly had an edge—his face was already showing signs of losing baby fat and hints of a gangly limbs were slowly emerging from his body. (It didn't help that no one else seemed to argue with his self imposed title, but there were a few who wanted to fight him for claiming such a thing). Anyway, as the lovely older sibling of many others (seriously, some popped out of nowhere while others… disappeared...It was too much of a bother and unwanted heartbreak after heartbreak to keep track of his family), he made it a point to keep out of everyone's affairs.

Sure, family was important. _Is_. But there was definitely a time and a place for the vulnerability of brotherhood. Their kind was notorious for not being the most…familial of creatures. How could they? No matter how solid in form, how tangible they presented themselves, they could be gone as surely and swiftly as the gentle evening breeze or as quiet as the death throes of a gaping volcano.

So, they fought.

They fought over land. People. Trade. Rights. Culture.

They fought because if they could not, their lives were no more.

Bah, who cares anyway? Napoli hardly met with any of his other siblings other than the usual standard affairs. Why should he care about the nature of human ideas and labels as such immortal, undying creatures? Such a funny notion…family.

Too much sentiment, but not enough to abate the bloodshed within their lineage.

"—listening? Hello, my dearest brother to the south? What have you got to say about this?"

Napoli turned away from the wooden grain of the table—such craftsmanship—to give a bored stare to one of his neighbors to the north. She was Genoa, a rising empire of trade on the western side of their shared peninsula. For some odd reason, her hair sported way too many ringlets and it fell down to her shoulders in purposely imperfect perfection.

The southern brother could only shudder at the implications. Ugh. French influence.

He leaned his chin into his open palm, eyes drifting heavenward. "Congrats on your most successful trading expedition." He turned a dark brown gaze to the lowly room that only housed the bare essentials. "Are you the world's best trading empire yet?"

Genoa's smirk turned sour at the unfortunate reminder that she was still tiers below Venezia's affluence and power. "You self-entitled, little—"

And Napoli tuned her out once again. It wasn't like he didn't care. He did. But he also knew how to be realistic. With trade came power, and with that, came those who wanted to wrest that way. It was natural, expected even, to get booted by the competition as early as possible. Pardon his pun, but it did come with the territory.

"Honestly, why did you come talking to me anyway?" Napoli fingered the hem of his tunic, fully conveying that he could hardly care less. "You want a bone to pick? Go snapping at Venezia's heels!"

Genoa, the little brat, stormed her way a little too close to Napoli's personal space. With a speed and strength that was characteristic only to Nations and the most strong-willed of humans, the child tried punching her elder. Unfortunately, Napoli caught her wrist with one hand and upper-cutted her with the other. Yelping, Genoa stopped attacking, but Napoli refused to let go.

"Genoa, I don't give a damn." He let go. "You talk to Venezia."

"But he'll listen to—"

"Northerners," Napoli hissed to himself. "Shut up and go deal with him yourself."

And with that, Napoli threw himself out the door and back to his villa at Naples.

* * *

The thing about Nations was that once they had something, it was very hard for them to leave things well enough alone. For one, sentiments that usually made its way to the surface meant that they're people wouldn't forget and would continue to perpetuate ideas that would long outlive them. (Read: grudges were far from unheard of and were a common way to get yourself killed). Secondly, Nations were nigh immortal. Ideas were hard to kill and it was harder still for them to forgive and forget. To turn the other cheek. And so on. Thirdly, it was a Nation's nature to be as bloodthirsty and merciless as the gods they worshipped in the old days. Even when Christianity was on the rise, Europe was still slathered with blood and dripping with guilt. There was no innocence to be had anymore.

So, it wasn't at all surprising when Napoli was resting in one of his hometown villas to have Genoa bursting through the door. Her clothing was torn, hair askew, and eyes were blazing with fury. Although she was seriously unkempt, Napoli allowed her to come inside. There was a time and place for propriety, but for now, Napoli was willing to be merciful.

"So—" He gestured for her to take a seat, which she refused with an angered huff. "—how did your little wars with Venezia go? That badly?"

Genoa huffed angrily. "I could have won, Napoli! I could have—"

"And what made this special occasion any different? And why are you even here?" Napoli took a swig of his wine even though it was still early afternoon. "Don't tell me Veneziano beat you so bad you want me to reign him in."

The look on Genoa's face was more than enough admission that was exactly what she wanted.

"_Dio mio_," Napoli breathed. The grin that he was sporting on his face was so ugly, Genoa felt that her entire soul was getting ripped into shreds as she witnessed her elder brother looking like he was about to fall off from his chair. "God above in Heaven, strike me down! That has got to be the funniest thing ever! However did that little trader defeat you in combat?"

"I could have won."

"But you didn't and—" He held up a hand to silence her protests. "—what really matters was the fact that you lost. Now go away."

Genoa bared her teeth at him and stomped out the door.

"Never let it be said that I was being unfair: I hate the both of you equally!" Napoli laughed as Genoa used the both of her arms to point a lewd gesture at him.

* * *

Elsewhere, little Venezia sailed high and proud on his trading adventures.


	27. Strange Men at Night

**26\. Strange Men at Night**

Date Written: _February 15, 2019_

Date Posted: _August 31, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _A young woman stumbles upon a man on the verge of death. Everything goes awry from there._

Notes:

* * *

The woman was walking down the street, purse clutched in one hand, the other clenching the hem of her coat. The streets were dimly lit, illuminating the cobblestones that were still slick from the day's earlier rain. As she walked, the shoes that she wore softly clacked on the stones. Once or twice, she would look behind her and clench her purse even tighter to her person. Eventually, she made it to an intersection and began traversing towards the other side.

Once there, she resumed her slightly casual, slightly frightened pace until she reached the mouth of an old alleyway. Here, she prepared to run across so that the alleyway would be behind her—she always had a fear of alleyways—when she heard something strange.

It was a sort of a whimpering sound that pulled at her heartstrings. It was soft and keening, a small plea that had her standing still for even longer than she wanted.

Was it an animal?

Or worse, was it a human?

The woman didn't want to backtrack to the mouth of the alleyway, but—

"H-help…" Again, it was that same sound, but formed into words.

The voice had a pull to it that wrapped around her senses, like a long forgotten blanket that she used to have as a child. Before she could question it, her feet moved forward a few centimeters.

Then a few more.

A few—

And now she was at the mouth of the alleyway.

Even though the streets were lit, the alleyway was still dark as pitch. Hesitantly, she was about to move forward again—just to sate her curiosity, she thought—when the voice called out again. This time, however, his voice was louder, even more heartbreaking.

The woman dropped her purse, the sense of something guiding, _pulling_, _**shoving**_ her in the direction the voice was coming from.

Just as suddenly as the woman was pulled in that direction, the _pull_, that _**tug**_, stopped.

That warm blanketing sensation was gone and now...now she felt so cold and so alone. Something heavy and sad seemed to hold her down in that one spot. It was so consuming and heartbreaking, the woman felt that she could cry from the enormity of the sensation.

Common sense demanded that she get the hell out of the alleyway—think of all the rats and the garbage that could be piling up on the ground! She could picture it, disease ridden rodents just waiting to get a bite of her flesh and pass on those diseases to her and—

"H-help me...please."

Robotic, the woman moved forward one step.

It was so quiet, the woman could hear her own breathing, but it was rough and _haggard_ and _**deep**_ and _and_ _**and**_—

_That wasn't __**her**_ _breathing. _

The woman's eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness and in that same darkness, she could see the faint outline of a human lying on the ground. His chest was moving up and down rapidly, face turned opposite from her, but she could still make out mumbled prayers and phrases for help.

She had to help.

_She had to help._

_**She had to help.**_

Without any regard for herself, the woman dropped down on her knees and had the man lie on his back. As she maneuvered himself into a better position, she saw that there was some dark liquid on his abdo—

She stopped.

"Y-you're bleeding!" No, no. She couldn't do this. She couldn't help a stranger that she only chanced to meet because she was too stupid and proud to call a cab. She had to get the proper authorities, she had to get someone with far more qualifications. She couldn't do this by herself. "I-I...my phone!"

She raced back to the mouth of the alleyway where she knew she dropped her purse. Once she had done that, she dug deep into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. To her dismay, she realized that her fingers had been bloodied since she had been the one positioning the young man flat on his back. Hastily, without regard for the clothing that she had worn, the woman wiped the blood on the front of her coat before she pulled the screen open and onto her list of contacts.

Someone, anyone, had to help her.

"Maybe police…? H-hospital?" Her fingers trembled as she punched in the numbers on her cell phone.

Just when the dial tone was about to be picked up, the woman felt her wrist being held in a vice like grip.

_There was someone behind her as well. _

"What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck. Did. You. Do." With every word, the woman felt the man's hands on her wrist tightening ever so slightly until she thought that her blood flow was going to cease flowing into her hand. Much to her horrified displeasure and growing agitation at the situation, a series of whimpers and tears fell from her lips. The man must have sensed her fear since he had loosened his group—marginally. "Shut the hell up and answer me! What the fuck did you do?"

"N-nothing!" Her voice, one that she had taken pride in for being ever so slightly musical and proud, was subdued and squeaky. It was all too high pitched and quick—signs that she was rapidly cracking on the inside. "I...I found him like—" She felt the man's hand on her wrist jerk her around gruffly. "—like this! Please believe me! I just walked past and felt-felt...something!" Her voice petered out at the end, the tears in her eyes and scratchiness of her throat did not serve as a means for further communication. "Please," she begged, "believe me."

For a moment, the man behind her seemed to tighten his grasp on her wrist. However, as she noisily sniffled, the man behind her clicked his teeth and threw her hand away as if she were naught but some garbage.

"Don't call the authorities, be it the hospital or for the police. Don't call anyone." The woman kept her head down, but she could feel him brush past her, this time a bit more gentler than last time. "I'm this idiot's brother."

He must have turned his head towards her because all of a sudden, she felt a piercing gaze on her person. The warm blanketing sensation that she felt from before seemed to have come back, but there was just something...faintly monstrous about it. She felt like a simple little lamb in the jaws of the wolf. Daniel in the lion's den. A mouse caught in the claws of a lazy cat.

She shivered.

"Go home." The man ordered as he slung his brother over his shoulder in the periphery of the woman's eyes. "Now."

"B-but—"

"_**Now**_."

And that warm blanketing sensation had turned fiery hot and without her permission, the woman clenched her phone and purse and ran out of the alleyway.

When she was far enough away, she halted.

The warmth was no longer with her. All she could feel was the cold and damp of a long forgotten rain.


	28. Innocence Lost

**27\. Innocence Lost**

Date Written: _February 15, 2019_

Date Posted_: September 7, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Wy_

Summary: _Veneziano has to review a painting that he doesn't particularly like. _

Notes:

* * *

Veneziano wore down the skin of his lip as he looked at the abstract—_was it abstract? modernity was a miracle in many ways, but the newfangled things they called art…_—painting in front of him. There was a series of paint that streaked across the canvas, the colors were stark and meshed together in a way that was...hopelessly addicting to the eye. If he looked at it closely, he could see the faint brushstrokes that were reminiscent of a painter trying their hardest to focus and make sure that their painting could be the best that it could be.

"It's…" Veneziano grit his teeth as he tried to come up with an intelligible phrase or word in English that could properly display how he was feeling without truly saying how he felt. It didn't help that the person he was critiquing was a child Micronation who was looking at him with something akin to indignation in her eyes. "It's really emotive."

Wy looked up at him with a look that was eerily reminiscent of England. Her brows (truly unfortunate things) were furrowed deep into her pinched face, and her hands were clenched at her sides. She seemed to be vibrating in anger.

Clearly, that wasn't the answer she was looking for.

She turned on him like the tide menacing a shore. "You birthed some of the world's best painters and artists and that's all you have to say?" She marched forward to her painting and pointed at her masterpiece. "Critique me and tell me what you think of it!"

Oh, she was so demanding and forceful—quite like England.

Veneziano wasn't sure how he felt about that.

The look in her eyes was something that Veneziano did not want to wish on his worst enemy. He could tell from the way that she was vibrating in anger that she looked only seconds away from either yelling at him or kicking him. At this point, Veneziano would rather have the little child kick him. At the very least, the pain would be temporary whereas she could have inherited England's propensity for creative insults—those hurt like old war wounds!

"Well," he began again. He licked his lips in preparation to start commenting on her usage of color and brushstrokes, but the little girl beat him to the punch.

Quite literally.

She stamped her feet to the ground and made as if she were about to strike him. Now, any Nation worth their salt would have been fast enough to dodge said punch, but the Italian stayed absolutely still. He knew he wasn't being fair or truthful in his verbal appraisal of her work, but…but she was just a _bambina_! How could he let her think of what he really thought about her post-modern monstrosity that would not be as worth much because-because-because—!

Wy managed to get in his line of vision again.

"I know I'm not the best painter in the world, Mr. Italy, but I can assure you, I know how to take criticism."

Did she, really?

Veneziano had attended so many art exhibitions, he had taught at a few universities in his free time, heck, he was the Father of the Renaissance! Who cared if it was _Firenze_ who had sired the greats, the best of Italian artistry? Veneziano was North Italy and North Italy did not discriminate when it came to art. If something called to his soul, then he would say that it was particularly well done and masterful. If something looked like crap, well then…It was the scum of the earth and wasn't worth to be dirt under Veneziano's designer shoes.

But those were adult painters who had time to hone their craft. They had tutors, teachers, experience to take the brush, the chisel, the pencil and create what came into their minds.

Wy was…

Wy is…

"You're young," Veneziano tried to say as gently as possible.

When the young girl made to strike him again, he easily caught her wrist and sat her down at the table, her eyes brimming with tears. He had long since forgiven her impudence.

"You're young," he said again. "However, you have so much potential and interesting characteristics that really make this piece of yours unique. You know how to contrast colors, how to orient your subjects within frame, and your technique is quite impeccable for your age. However, I am not willing to judge you based on my years as an artist. That would be unfair to you as a beginner."

"But I'm—"

"Yes, I understand that you've been painting your whole life, but so have I." Veneziano looked deep into her eyes and the Principality of Wy truly saw the age that was deep within his soul. "I've been painting ever since I could hold a brush, which was…" He huffed a laugh, too tired and too old to remember when he had first picked up the instrument and began to create. "_Dio mio_, I can't remember for the life of me. Remember, you were born less than two decades ago; your talent will flourish in time."

Wy looked away, still stubborn.

And so very much like England, he could help but think to himself.

"That being said," Veneziano paused to look at Wy's painting, a new perspective taking over his mind, "I really like your painting."

"Is it good enough for you to take home?" Wy clutched one of her arms while one of her feet kicked at some imaginary dirt on the floor. Veneziano tried his hardest not to coo at her adorable nature when she wasn't raging with indignation. "B-because—"

Veneziano knelt down and placed a hand on her shoulder. The action had her tense, but she relaxed when she heard his next few words.

"I would love to hang this in my apartment." He squeezed her shoulder slightly. "Thank you."

They stayed in that position, Nation looking up at Micronation.

Then, Wy shrugged out of his hold and looked somewhere at a point beyond his shoulder. In true English fashion, she said, "You're very welcome and...and thank you for being honest with me."

Veneziano smiled.


	29. Sketch Onto Canvas

**28\. Sketch Onto Canvas**

Date Written: _February 26, 2019_

Date Posted_: September 14, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Veneziano finds himself a little free time after hours of working. _

Notes:

* * *

Sometimes, Veneziano would find himself with nothing to do.

Those times were rare; Nations were expected to fill out their share of the paperwork, attend meetings (national or otherwise), and any other number of tasks that their bosses saw fit to entrust them. It really came as a surprise when he found an empty inbox, his pile of paperwork only a few centimeters high, and his energy still at its peak.

That was strange, he thought to himself. Even on his most productive days, he still only managed to fulfill a quarter of his duties. Mystified, the auburn haired Italian happened to glance at an analog clock that rested on the top of his desk before silently cursing.

Of course! No wonder he finished so surprisingly early—he had managed to not only miss his customary siesta and lunch, but also his dinner! Now that he thought about it, his stomach had been growling at him for some time now… Was that the reason why he felt so lightheaded at times for the past few hours?

Well, those thoughts and his paperwork could wait until tomorrow, which meant…

Time to celebrate!

With just a bit of a hop in his footsteps, he practically skipped to his kitchen. It was still in the early throes of evening, but his poor stomach wouldn't let him entertain thoughts of concocting food that would take ages to make. It only took a second of deliberation before he decided on making one of his acclaimed meals.

Polenta!

Yes, he would make polenta, drink some of his wine, and get some well needed rest…

After centuries of practicing his cooking and perfecting his techniques, a bowl of his favorite food was prepared and he immediately dug in. There was no need for propriety; the Italian dove into the bowl like a man starved. He may or may not have managed to burn his tongue and scald the back of his throat, but who cared? His belly was full, strength renewed, and best of all, he didn't have to worry about his duties!

Well, at least for a day or two.

Mind in a frenzy, Italy began to head over to one of the rooms that no one ever bothered to enter. It was a fairly standard room with old paintings hanging on the walls, old sketches scattered all over the surface of his table. On the drawers and within the cabinets, there was an array of paints and paintbrushes. Centuries had given him time to play and experiment with the tools of his trade.

However, he wouldn't get straight to painting.

Oh no.

There were only so many hours left before he would stop, but he wasn't going to tarnish his celebratory mood by just mindlessly diving into a new piece.

He trotted the expanse of the room, footsteps as light as a ballerina. After a moment's deliberation, he came to a halt and took a sheaf of old documents and treaties not worth mentioning. He carelessly flipped through them before he unceremoniously dropped them onto one of his work tables.

Pencil in hand, he began to sketch something that he had been imagining for the past few weeks. Whenever he had the urge to paint, it was best if he got all of his ideas scratched out onto paper. He may not have been a perfectionist like Germany or Austria, but he knew that there was something indescribably satisfying to put brush to canvas and just instantly breath life into an idea he had.

At first, his sketch was merely a ghost of the true picture. Scratching and almost hesitant, the sketch quickly darkened and became emboldened as Italy began to shade and breathe life into his picture. It was hard work, but it was the only hard work that he loved.

After almost half an hour of sketching to his heart's content, he leaned back in his chair and held his sketch to the light.

Ah, he breathed. He could practically see the colors complementing each other, the masterful brushstrokes that only centuries' worth of practice could achieve. He had a feeling that this little sketch of his would be brilliant. Now, all he had to do was transfer the sketch onto canvas and—

His cell phone, which he left in the pocket of his pants vibrated.

He happily picked up. "Romano? It's so great—"

"Go to sleep, stupid."

"But it's so—"

"Don't pull the 'oh, so early' thing again, you dumbass! Your neighbor is getting worried that you've been working yourself to the bone again!" There was a rustling on Romano's side of the phone, as if he was busy huddling into the covers. "She's been calling me the past couple of days and it's been getting really annoying."

Veneziano smiled despite the bite in his brother's words. "Ah, did you ask Signora Maria to keep an eye on me? I thought her giving me the eyes was just flirtation."

Veneziano could practically hear his brother roll his eyes at him. "Don't flatter yourself. Now," his voice deepened to a commanding intonation, "do yourself, but mostly me, a favor and get some rest."

Just when the younger Italian was about to tell him a decisive "no", a traitorous yawn slipped out of his lips. Even with his trying to stifle it, his brother still happened to have exceptional hearing.

"Veneziano…"

"Fine, I'll try to get some rest."

"You're lying. I can practically smell your sin from all the way down here."

"I will! I just want to finish a lovely painting—I just finished a few preliminary sketches—and I just need a couple more hours—"

"_Venezia_," It was a small word, unassuming and small, but now it held an indeterminate amount of meaning cultivated over the years. Instantly, Veneziano sighed and began to walk out of his special art room.

"Fine."

"Great." A pause. "Now good night."

A sigh. "I'll see you tomorrow."


	30. The Creativity Within

**29\. The Creativity Within**

Date Written: _February 26, 2019_

Date Posted_: September 21, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, England, Romano, Seborga_

Summary: _England is stuck on what sort of present he should give to Sealand. Veneziano tries his utmost to help. _

Notes:

* * *

"You could try asking him—"

"I am not asking a young child, a hundredth of my age, his opinion on what I should get him for his birthday."

England huffed as he brought his arms across his chest, a scowl on his pale face. He was seated at the annual meeting for all Nations and he would rather not be there, _thank you very much_. Despite his feelings, the meeting had gone well; America and France were busy talking about some private matters that England would rather not get into, his British brothers were all too busy with their own political agendas, and he didn't need to present that day.

For some odd reason, Italy had approached him for some opinions based on the financial state of affairs in the Mediterranean community. The conversation had evolved from such matters to that of family and, of course, England just had to bring up the topic of Micronations and their birthdays.

The second of September was fast approaching and England was at a loss of what to get the young boy. Sealand and him had never gotten along, especially since the child had tried gaining independence away from him. England and the rest of Britain did not officially recognize Sealand as a Nation, and neither did the rest of the world. However, that didn't stop England from being diligent as a good older brother to his...psuedo-relation...thing...that was Sealand.

Yet, good intentions never equaled better results, so it felt fitting to ask Italy, who also had a brother who was a Micronation amidst his borders, for some advice.

England had thought that Italy would brush it off with some advice about pasta, but the man actually he looked like he was contemplating something.

"Well," Italy began with some hesitation, "you could always grant him—"

"He is a child with delusions of grandeur." England seethed. It was a big mistake opening up to Italy like this. Why did he even think about asking him? He was—

Well now.

Wasn't that amusing.

Italy was laughing _at him_.

"Oh my, _Inghilterra_! I was just joking!" Italy held up his hands in a placating manner. "You're free to grant him independence if you want, but it was all just a joke. However, you really should do talk to him. Have fun somewhere. Dig deep within yourself and be creative!"

"But I don't like talking to him. He's always whining about something." At Italy's unimpressed glare, England sulked. "Fine, maybe I am acting childish, but it's been almost a decade since I've last seen him and Sweden said that he would appreciate it more if I send more than just the customary birthday cards."

Italy balked. "You-you...how...just cards?"

Honestly, at the look of such aghast disappointment, England would have laughed, but he was already feeling the guilt eating at him.

"_Homemade_ cards," England stressed. "Even though I can't lay claim to your artistic skills, I can still use watercolors and calligraphy fairly decently and my poetry far surpasses yours."

Now, Italy could have been offended at that last comment, but now wasn't the right time for that. He could disagree and kick England's ass later; Sealand needed him for a good birthday gift.

"Why don't you just visit him?"

"But—"

"Listen, _amico_, I know that the last time you've seen him must have been at least a decade ago. And even then, Sealand was the one to visit you nearly all the time. Sometimes the best gift is your presence."

England glared at him. "I'd rather you make puns in your own language."

"But you see where I'm going with this, right?"

England sighed for a moment but stopped when he realized that he had been sighing for most of the day anyway.

"I'll discuss visiting when I talk to Sweden the next time I see him."

Italy smiled, happy that he convinced England to be a better brother. "_Molto bene!_"

Perhaps he should visit Seborga soon, as well.

.

.

.

Which led Veneziano to actually visit Seborga in his little house in his equally small nation.

Although Seborga was just as old as Veneziano, he never could quite get the physical age of that of a twenty year old. He remained quite youthful in appearance—in fact, America even claimed (once he got his head out of his own arse to recognize Seborga as an independent Nation within Italy's borders), that he looked older than Seborga himself. Seborga didn't really care about appearances (unless it had something to do with pretty women), or about his age. Seborga was simply one of the forgotten Italy brothers who still managed to survive until present day.

So, it came to pass that on one day, Seborga had arrived at his little house after a long day of walking around and playing with small children and flirting with the pretty girls. He walked into his house and was greeted with his two older brothers, Veneziano and Romano, and found himself fearing for the worst.

It wasn't every day that a Nation just happened to visit their respective Micronations without good reason.

It simply wasn't done and it technically wasn't necessary for them to check up on their small constituent that lived within their shared borders.

"What's wro—" Seborga stepped into his brother's space, but found himself gripped with a tug from the both of them. At first, Seborga was in shock. Did something happen to their President? Was there a terrorist attack? It wasn't until he felt his brothers kiss his cheeks and small greetings of "Happy Birthday!" that he cracked and asked, "What's this about? You usually just call—especially since we're all busy!"

Veneziano, bubbly with excitement, told him that he was reminded to show his little brother some love after having a talk with England.

Romano was a little gruff. He had been meaning to have some dinner with Seborga for a couple years now, it just seemed like a good idea to have his ideas align with Veneziano's.

Regardless, Seborga didn't care.

He liked having his brothers' attention on him for once.


	31. The Structural Integrity of a Disaster

**30\. The Structural Integrity of a Disaster**

Date Written: _February 27, 2019_

Date Posted_: September 28, 2019_

Characters: _Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Switzerland protects his property against Italian architecture. _

Notes: _The Guard that is mentioned is the Swiss Guard that help protect the Pope. I also included a reference to that particular episode where Italy has fun on the beach of that one mysterious island._

* * *

Switzerland stomped in front of his property, a look of consternation on his face as he surveyed his surroundings. Holiday white snow sparkled like crystals as they lay over the scenery—a sight that would have him smiling no matter his previous temperament. As much as he would like to take in the sights of his land, he simply couldn't. The air, brisk and crisp would have him laughing away his troubles away. Yet, it just couldn't be done at that moment.

It was all very problematic because of one specific reason.

There was a gigantic sculpture of pasta being made from snow.

Nope. That simply wouldn't do. Off he went back into his house to rifle through his belongings; he was hoping to get something that would help him mediate with the situation.

"Switzerland?" Liechtenstein sighed as she went outside of her bedroom to check on her brother. She had seen the sculpture and had wanted to warn about her brother about it, but the look on his face said it all: he really didn't want to talk about it right now. "It's just a little—"

Switzerland briskly walked past his little sister, hauled the door open so hard that it caused it to make contact with the adjoining wall loudly, and marched into the snow.

"Italy! I know you're out there!" Switzerland waited and cocked his gun, knowing that the Italian would give up his hiding spot just to make himself look innocent in front of Switzerland's face.

True to form, Italy stepped from behind the sculpture, a white scarf dangling from an outstretched hand.

"Hi, Switzerland!" A beat. For a moment, both men looked at each other; one looking like he was about to commit homicide, the other a little too enthusiastic to meet his demise. "Did you—"

"Why are you desecrating my property?"

Italy twiddled his thumbs as he swayed back and forth on his feet. Switzerland knew that the Italian was gauging his chances concerning survival. If Switzerland was feeling generous, he would have invited Italy inside for breakfast, but the sculpture! The trespassing! Switzerland was neutral on all fronts, but he would be damned if he would let another Nation walk all over his property. There was a reason why cell phones and email were invented.

The audacity! The nerve!

Switzerland was somewhat mollified when saw that Italy falter and back away slightly.

Italy was a child at heart, yes, but he knew when he should back away from something this unsightly.

"I just wanted to give you a gift that would show how much I appreciate you?"

Switzerland scoffed.

"Okay, maybe I just wanted to stay with you… and probably say hello to your cute sister."

The last part may have been said in a rush, but Switzerland heard and blanched at that. "She's younger than you, Italy." Switzerland aimed his gun in between Italy's bright brown eyes. "Even so… As if I would ever let you take my sister's innocence away."

Thank God Liechtenstein hadn't caught up with him. She would have received the contagious condition of chronic stupidity that Italy seemed to suffer from.

"Good day, Liechtenstein!"

Spoken way too soon.

The young female Nation giggled at her elder's antics. She even had the nerve to bring her brother's trigger hand down so that it no longer was aimed in Italy's direction. Although she had a broad smile on her face, her wrist was taut against her brother's arm. She was not pleased with how Switzerland was behaving.

He instantly felt bad. One must never make the German female Nation feel terrible.

Or angry.

"What are you doing, Italy?" She asked sweetly as she holstered the gun at her side. She was always quick with her nimble fingers. "It seems that you're quite busy."

"Oh, I just wanted to celebrate your first snowfall!" He patted the side of his sculpture before addressing the siblings again. "Would you care to join me?" His face was so happy and his eyes were closed shut tight, Switzerland almost said yes…

"My sister and I are not coming out." And with that, Switzerland took his sister by the arm and whirled her back inside.

"Why did you do that?" Liechtenstein crossed her arms. "He was just being nice—"

"I know why he's actually here." The blond man took his sister by the arms as they watched from the window to what the Italian was doing. "Look, and tell me what you see."

Liechtenstein sighed, but did as her brother bid. She saw Italy duck behind the sculpture and… That was it. The young girl looked to her brother and quirked an eyebrow at him. Just what was he getting at? There was no way that her brother would act so protectively over _this_. She said as much as to her brother who shrugged and gestured towards the door.

"Italy is a crafty one when he feels like it. If you truly trust in his intentions—"

"Which I do."

"—then you can go down to that monstrosity for yourself and see just how trustworthy he truly is."

* * *

Switzerland stepped out into the snow, stepping carefully next to Liechtenstein's footprints. She had gone missing only fifteen minutes ago and he feared for the worst. Just when all hope seemed lost, he found himself listening to a—

"Ho! There goes Switzy!"

And he found himself pelted in the face with snowballs from Italy, his brother, and—

"Liechtenstein, you traitor!" He cupped his cheek with one hand while the other wiped snow away from his hair. He had neglected to bring a gun this time around. "I thought—!"

Liechtenstein pelted another snowball at him. "Come on, brother! Have some fun!"

"Yeah, Switzerland...or else you'll have to find new employment for your Guard." That was from Romano.

Veneziano just smiled cheekily at the blond.


	32. In His Eyes

**31\. In His Eyes**

Date Written: _February 28, 2019_

Date Posted_: October 5, 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _Veneziano contemplates human relationships and children._

Notes:

* * *

Nations, as a rule, deliberately didn't use human convention to describe their relationships. There were the occasional, "he's my brother" or "I think of her as a sister", but rarely did the terms stick. America no longer viewed England as his brother, Japan thought himself separate from China, and many others had acquiesced to the same convention.

Furthermore, Nations, as a rule, rarely associated with humans unless they were in the know about Nationhood. Of course, there were no punishment to become those if that should ever happen, but… death and experience was more than enough incentive to deter those from going down an ambitious road concerning humans.

And Nations, as a rule, did not go around procreating. Sexual libidos and want for intimacy aside, there was no way to procreate. Male Nations had the capability, but their seed rarely made it to fruition. Female Nations rarely carried the babe to full term.

And that's if they actually tried.

Children born of Nations were very rare—only half a dozen were documented after the fall of Rome. China, the youngest of the Ancients and the first of modernity, showed only a brief recollection of such rare children.

Perhaps that is why Nations took to colonizing, to brand their image into a weak link of their kind. Perhaps it was to fill a hole that humans couldn't offer them.

Nations weren't meant to bear children.

But perhaps they could raise them?

Italia Veneziano looked down at the small bundle that lay within a small cot. Its small face was pink with warmth, fat from sucking its mother's milk. The small hands—so tiny!—were balled up and unconsciously batting away the clothes.

"Are you having a bad dream, little one?" The centuries old young man brushed a few strands of the tuft of hair that strayed from the tip of the child's head. Like the rest of the child, the head was warm and fragile—the promise of something more, something greater in the future.

Carefully, oh so carefully, he took the child in his arms. A warm feeling took hold, streaking from the center of his chest to the tips of his toes. All Nations, no matter how jaded, cynical, or bloodthirsty loved children.

Children were the lifeblood, the precursors of society. That future of life was innocent, their hearts still untainted and immaculate in the eyes of dystopia.

Italy wished for this.

Within his arms, the child breathed deeply and batted its hands about.

"Are you fighting?" He asks in jest. "Are you fighting for me? Please, little one, I don't need warriors now." His stern, but still so soft eyes, watched the babe as he lightly touched his forehead to the slumbering infant.

Italy stayed like that, his presence simply a backdrop again the monsters of life. Perhaps one day, when the child was all grown, they would meet again.

It's a prospect that both terrifies and excites him.

How can a child retain such innocence?

How can a child be so pure and so untainted given the shambles of society?


	33. The Drive

**32\. The Drive**

Date Written: _March 1, 2019_

Date Posted_: October 26 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _On a drive to Austria's house, an argument arises._

Notes: _Part One of a three part series._

* * *

It wasn't supposed to be a long drive, just a short one from one city to the next. They would sometimes do that; they would leave a text for their bosses that said, _No worries, we just want to go out for a little while_, and then pack up their car with a few essentials and drive. On most days, they would travel from one of their cities to the next. Other times, they would decide to visit their neighbors for a quick get together.

As far as they were concerned, they had all the time in the world and it was very rare for to be in each other's houses for too long. Every decade and a half, give or take a few years.

The brothers decided to go visit Austria's house because of two reasons. One, Veneziano wanted to know how to take better care of his violin (who better than the world's oldest violinist?). Two, Romano was marginally okay with spending some quality time with the stuffy, aristocratic Nation. However, just when they had crossed the border, there was a sudden popping sound and—

"Is the car exploding?" Alarmed, the northern half of Italy immediately parked their car on the side of the road. Much to the amusement of his older brother, Veneziano quickly hopped out of the car as if he were on fire to survey what had happened.

To his utter relief, the car was not exploding.

To his utter despair, the car had just happened to have a flat tire.

"Veneziano, you're an idiot." Romano walked out the passenger side to survey the damage. Just like his brother said, there was a flat tire. It was a sad thing to see. "Well, we're fucked."

While Romano was indifferent to the whole incident, his younger brother paced along the side of the road, phone in hand. The northern brother whipped out his cell phone and began speaking in a weird mix of Italian and German to presumably Austria. As he talked, his spare hand began a series of hand gestures that illustrated just how seriously sorry he was. _Sorry about everything, Austria, but really they hadn't announced the trip, kind of spontaneous, you see—_

The elder brother, not wanting to listen to his brother's apologies, leaned against the side of the car. Honestly, it was kind of his fault. Of the two, Romano was the one who was supposed to check the pressure on the cars every so often. Even though Veneziano was more accustomed and efficient at engineering and manufacturing, he was still a scatterbrained moron. So yeah. Definitely Romano's fault in this context, but it wasn't like he was going to admit it.

After a while, silence filled the air. The sky was dark, the lights from their car the only thing that could light up the expanse of the land. It didn't take long before Romano felt his brother sidle up to him that belied a hint of uncertainty that his brother did little to hide.

"Romano?"

"Bastard."

"I've got some good news and bad news."

Romano gave his brother a murderous side glance. "And I wanted to eat pasta, but someone decided that we should eat polenta for breakfast."

Veneziano smiled briefly. "Austria is willing to drive out here with a spare tire...but we have to treat him to dinner."

Romano raised and eyebrow. True, he had a temper at times, but Veneziano made it seem like something terrible was going to happen. Geeze, Veneziano acted like he couldn't handle bad news!

"Really?" Romano shrugged as he leaned against the side of the car. " That sounds like good news to me."

"Ah, Austria gets lost easily."

"So we wait a couple hours. I thought ahead and packed some food just in case." He even brought a couple of their wines, but decided that he would let Veneziano eat his food on his own. "No worries."

Veneziano tittered. It was an altogether annoying sound during this circumstance, but in the dying night, it sounded forced and fake. It was a harbinger of death. A bad omen.

Romano tensed for the inevitable.

"Germany is accompanying him."

Ah. Now everything made sense.

Without sparing his brother a glance, Romano walked over to the trunk of their shared car and pulled out a bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. Satisfied with the pickings, he slammed the lid of the trunk down and began walking in the opposite direction of their destination.

"Romano, please!" There was the sound of rushing footsteps and a few panting breaths.

The southern half of Italy stifled the urge to smile. Sure his baby brother was known to be flighty and quick on his feet, but really, who was the one who taught him to be quick? It certainly wasn't that no-good Austria. Still, burdened as he was with the choice in food, he suddenly found himself facing his brother.

"Hey, I'm not stopping you or anything." Romano still walked without a care in the world. On the other hand, his brother continued to face him; was it really that hard to jog backward? Romano would try doing that, but A) he was still holding his wine and B) he wasn't willing to stoop down to his brother's level. "You're free to see the demon potato eaters on your own. I'll just eat by myself."

"Romano!"

"Veneziano, I'm not in the mood. Let me be."

This time, when the younger brother urged him to stop, there was a smoldering flame of ire in his eyes…which were heightened by the presence of tears.

If Romano wasn't too religious, he would have stated only Jesus himself to strike him down. There was absolutely nothing that could stop Veneziano from getting what he wanted when he employed tears and the eyes. Ugh. Manipulative, cheeky little bastard.

"I know you don't like Germany, but—"

"Literally. Not. Stopping. You. Bye."

"—we're practically family! If not family, then really good neighbors and really good neighbors would have fun together!" Veneziano halted in his steps abruptly. Fortunately for Romano, he was more than well versed to his brother's underhanded tactics. Without even trying, he neatly sidestepped him and continued to stroll down the road.

At that point, the duo were several meters away from the car. Any further and the car would be cloaked by the darkness of the night. It would be at the mercy of thieves. Good, Romano thought viciously. Perhaps Veneziano would come to his senses and go back to guarding the car.

Or, an even better solution: his brother would follow him back home.

No matter how long it would take.

A plea, broken and gasping struck through the darkness.

"Don't you care?"

Romano continued walking.

"Why are you like this? Why are you always like this?" At that point, Veneziano uttered a name that Romano hadn't heard in almost a millennium. It was his human name, the first one gifted to him by their predecessor, the Great Roman Empire. It was such an old, archaic name, the one time Romano would ever see or heard it was with old texts.

To say that he was stunned into both silence and into stopping was an understatement.

He practically skidded the toad—just how fast was he going?

He whirled around to face his brother, arms swinging with the sudden momentum.

"Why? Why am I like this? Why don't you try asking yourself that question? Besides, you're their neighbor! You're the one who wants to talk and eat at their place!" At each question, and exclamation, the older Italian stalked towards his brother. But—oh! It was times like these where Romano wished that they were back in the past when the world wasn't so big, when politics wasn't such a sandbox of idiocy. Oh, how he wished that he still the advantage of height over his brother.

Still, the sheer amount to hurt and panic that someone made itself evident in his voice was enough to cow his younger brother. Yes, his half of the house wasn't as strong. Yes, he wasn't as nearly as talented as his brother. And, yes, he wasn't socially accepted at his brother.

But, hell would freeze over before Romano would let Veneziano walk all over him before he pulled rank—Did Veneziano forget that he was far older than him? Centuries were drops of water to a Nation, but there was still respect to be had.

"I…I just—I wanted—"

"Wanted what? To have fun, drink their worthless beer, and talk like nothing's wrong with the world? Good for you! Me? No one wants me. No one ever wants me. You really think I would enjoy myself with that hanging over my head?"

Veneziano looked away.

Good, Romano nodded to himself. If he shut up now, then it was a sure sign that he had won. At the very least, he could fuck off back into their regions.

Except, his younger brother had clamped a hand over his wrist. There was a strength there that very few experienced firsthand. If Romano wished, he could try to break free, but he couldn't—wouldn't—he wasn't going to waste his energy over his stupid brother. It wasn't as if his brother could beat him in physical strength, damn it!

"Romano… has it ever occurred to you that other people would ...want you more if you let your guard down?"

Romano shrugged his brother off as if he was burned.

"I am not—how dare—" He spluttered in anger. "Are you asking me to change for a couple of damn potato eaters?"

Ashamed, his younger brother look away before it disappeared into a contemplative frown.

But Romano saw that shamed look, that was all he wanted to see.

"That's not what I meant. Change yourself to be…better. Not for me!" Veneziano waved his hand in a placating motion, all too aware that if Romano so chose, he would have turned both his container of pasta and wine into formidable weapons. "And definitely not for them. Just… I want all of us to be happy. Most of all, I want you to be happy."

It took all of Romano's patience not to walk (run) off into his country's borders. Happiness? With all of his brother's friends? What was he, a kid? They were adults! No, they were something more eternal and everlasting than mere human beings.

They were Nations, friendships never lasted, happiness was fleeting, and hope like this was stupid!

Why wouldn't his brother see?

"If you want me to be happy, then let me go."

His brother looked up at him sadly.

"Will that truly make you happy?" This time, the tears within his brother's eyes startled to trickle down his fair cheeks. They were neither tainted with anger nor with annoyance. Instead, there was a sadness that was as deep as the Adriatic.

Damn him.

Romano badly wanted to say yes, to end the conversation right then and there. This is what he wanted, right? Leaving would make him happy. He wouldn't have to worry about his brother getting too drunk to function, talking to Germany would be nonexistent and—and—and—

He found himself looking back, stunned to see a pair of lights slowly becoming brighter was they approached.

"Your friend is here." Romano's voice was dead.

His brother looked at the lights with an eagerness that could be likened to that of a man starved after days of no food. It was a childish excitement that had his brother glowing like the sun. In fact, if Romano really concentrated, he could see that his brother was rocking on his heels.

Romano began walking.

He began to walk towards their shared car.

For a moment, there was only one pair of trudging footsteps. Then, another pair, slightly lighter, almost hopeful, began to walk after the other pair.

"I won't enjoy it."

"But you'll try."

"I…" Romano's hands tighter on his goods."I'll try."

As one, they stepped into the blinding light of Germany's car.


	34. The Talk

**33\. The Talk**

Date Written: _March 3, 2019_

Date Posted_: October 26 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Romano and Germany have a small talk. _

Notes: _Part Two of a three part series._

* * *

When Germany had been called over to assist his neighbor and fellow Germanic Nation, Austria, he had thought that he probably needed help with his house or something. He truly didn't think that the bespectacled Nation would ask him to help with poor little Italy. Of course, Germany had a grasp on history, as was dictated by Prussia. He knew that Italy (at least parts of the Northern half) used to be under Austrian rule.

He just didn't think that they would continue their relationship to this day.

Of course, during international meetings, they were several degrees above cordial, but he had attributed to that of a healthy business relationship.

Regardless, the blond Nation had agreed. After all, he and Italy were good friends.

What Germany didn't account for was Italy's older brother, Italia Romano.

It probably shouldn't be as jarring as it should, but to see the older brother willingly accompany Ita—Veneziano to Austria's house...Germany wasn't sure how to explain it, but it was certainly surprising to see Romano push a container and what looked like wine back into his car's trunk.

After Veneziano subtly manipulated him into changing one of the tires ("_Don't you know how to change a tire?" "But I don't want to get my hands dirty!"_), Germany was set out to lead them all back to Austria's house. Now, here's how he thought the arrangement would work. Either Germany would drive and Veneziano would just so happen to be the passenger, or he would drive with Austria as a passenger. Those were the only options he had put any consideration into.

The world tilted a degree of a fraction on its axis when he heard the news.

"Ah, Signor Austria and I have to talk about the upkeep of violins! Go have fun with Romano!"

And with that, Veneziano shoved his brother in Germany's direction before dragging Austria into his car.

Suffering a bit from the backlash, Germany looked from the ready starting car and back to a furious Italian. Although their relationship had somewhat warmed over the course of the century, Romano still didn't hold him in the highest esteem. Germany wasn't all too bothered by this. However, he couldn't deny that he would rather have Romano view him as an… acquaintance, but really, it was the Italian's choice.

Germany didn't want to fight.

"You getting in or what? You want me to drive?" Romano asked sardonically, but made for the passenger's side.

Emboldened by the lack of biting criticism, Germany moved toward the driver's side. He started the ignition and as he was about to pull the car out of park, he heard the southern Italian mutter under his breath. That was normal. While those who weren't used to Romano's temperament would have balked at such rudeness, the blond just took it in stride.

A part of him liked to think of himself as a master of understanding his Mediterranean neighbors to the south. Was it foolish if he thought himself as such? Perhaps, but he was far from inexperienced.

So, as past experiences have taught him, he merely began pulling out of the side of the road. If the blond listened closely, he could hear the tail end of a muttered cursed and few choice words directed at him.

"You know—" Germany began conversationally. "—I think it's better for the person that you're insulting that you either don't say anything or don't speak loud enough. It might seem like you're talking to yourself and I don't think you would want to be thought of as crazy."

"Ah, really?" Germany's eyes were trained on the road, but he could practically hear Romano's eyes roll. "The only crazy one here is you! I didn't say anything!"

"Now that's just childish." He let his eyes move from the road and onto the Italian's face for a second. Unsurprisingly, there was a scowl. "You definitely said quite a few things."

Germany heard a rustle of something. Maybe it was Romano covering his ears or shifting his legs.

"Hmm...and what kind of evidence do you have to back up your claim? Seems like you're just accusing me."

Such childishness should not have a place amongst beings who were centuries old. It irked him sometimes. That the descendants of Rome were two blithering idiots who couldn't do anything right just didn't sit well with the Germany. Veneziano was too kind hearted, loving, and artistic. Romano was grounded, lazy, and outspoken. Combined, they were one Nation that had been (unwittingly) the area of much contention for the past millennium or so.

"I speak only the truth, Romano. You said something and I'm merely asking for you to speak up."

"Hmph. And I take it that you use that same tone and voice with my brother, don't you?"

The blond chanced a look. This time, there was a nasty sneer that lined the southern Italian's features.

"What does that mean? Of course I do."

"You favor him over me."

It wasn't the words that had an impact on him.

It was the way that he said it that had Germany take pause.

As a person, a human if you will, he was quite inexperienced when it came to understanding and correctly adapting to the fickleness of emotions. For quite some time, he had been envious of Veneziano's ability to navigate the sociopolitical arena. He may not have been the best at warfare, but knowing when to push and pull back emotionally, manipulating his fellow Nations, or convincing Germany to take him on a ride was simply amazing. If it were not for his innate desire to learn and his long lifespan, Germany would have surely died without knowing the inner intricacies of a human heart...well a bit better than what he knew decades ago. He still needed to learn, as what the northern Italian had said.

Right now, Germany thanked his lucky stars that his bubbly little friend had never given up on their friendship.

If he were to correctly identify Romano's mood...hmm...What were the components of effective communication? A fraction was voice, but the rest was all up to body language. Part observation. Now that he had gathered up all the variables, he just needed to add in context, and his relationship between him and his brother, which would equal—

"You're jealous."

There was only the sound of the purring engine and the grating sound of pop music mixed with rap. And then—

"You just figured that out now?" Although the blond kept his eyes trained on the windshield, he could actually feel Romano's eyes bore down into his soul. "And I thought you were supposed to be the smart one! Tell me, when Prussia found you, did he drop you on your head as a child?"

He pondered. "Quite a few times, actually. He liked throwing me in the air and then catching me."

"You're—That's just—" A shriek of disgusted fury. "If it wasn't for the fact that I didn't dislike you so much, I would offer to punch him for you. He shouldn't have been so careless as to do that to a small child."

"And why don't you like me that much?"

"Correction: I don't like you at all."

Germany winced. He set himself up for that one.

"You're jealous. Of who? Me or your brother?" Germany continued before the Italian began his telltale tirade. "Before you refute my question, I'll have you know that admitted to your being jealous only a few minutes ago."

A beat. "Does it really matter if I'm jealous or not? You probably won't remember any of this.

"Of course it matters. In order to fully understand a given problem or obstacle, one must avail himself the appropriate sources to come to a satisfactory conclusion."

"You bastard! You think I'm just a problem or a math equation you can just solve! I'll have you know—"

It wasn't like Germany to interrupt another person while they were speaking, but the blond felt that it was appropriate to do so now. "One, you're jealous of your brother. Of what, I'm not sure. Two, you don't think that your opinion matters, but if you think it does, you don't think others would value your thoughts. Three, you lash out because while I'm not exactly correct, I am getting closer to the truth."

Another beat. And then—

"What are you? That tool, Freud? If you start bringing up any abnormal sexual fantasies, I will jump out of this car."

Germany sighed. At least he had gotten through Romano if the latter was digging around for verbal ammunition.

"He was Austrian, not German." He gave Romano a side glance. "Regardless of origin, some of his ideas, although unfounded, have some credit to them."

"Which means?"

"I think you need therapy—"

"Hell no, you potato!"

"—if you don't find someone to express your grievances, doubts, and fears. Ideally, I think that speaking with your brother would not only allay your fears, but also serve to mend your relationship."

"Do you have your planner?"

Germany frowned at the sudden question, but let it pass. He was trying to get on Romano's good side after all. "In my coat. Why?"

"Because I'm going to write down _fuck off into hell _on Thursday."

"Pity, it's booked for the day with a few choice politicians."

"Then invite them over to hell. Tell them the mode of transportation would by by fucking themselves."

"Tempting, but I fear they are a tad bit too conservative for a change in schedule."

Romano, for once throughout the drive, let out a peal of light laughter. Even though he had never spent an exorbitant amount of time with the southern Italian, he quickly surmised that the sound was genuine. Germany could even hear the sound of gasping breath and wheezing. It was a laugh that perfectly encompassed the Italian's very being: deep and rich with promising warmth.

Honestly, it shouldn't have surprised him to hear such joyous music. Veneziano's laugh was bright and airy whenever he wasn't being intentionally annoying.

"Good job." Another bout of laughter. "You almost made me like you."

Germany surreptitiously smiled.

Yes, it wasn't nice, but the Italian wasn't as biting as he was before.

"So will you—?"

Another bark of laughter. This time, it was a grating sound like two pieces of rock were forced to rub up against each other, grating.

"Hell no...not tonight." When Germany pulled in front of a traffic light—how much time had actually passed?—he happened to see Romano look crestfallen and unsure. "Just… Oi! Don't look so smug, you bastard!"

This time, it was the blond's turn to laugh uproariously.

Well, as uproariously as Germany could make it seem.


	35. The Morning After

**34\. The Morning After**

Date Written: _March 8, 2019_

Date Posted_: October 26 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, Austria_

Summary: _The aftermath after hours of drinking._

Notes: _Part Three of a three part series._

* * *

"I fear that the apocalypse may be upon us." Austria took a sip of his tea before gesturing with an offhand manner—yet was still so poised and regal—towards two men of differing temperaments drunkenly trying to sing.

The duo in question was Germany (drunk from beer) and Romano (also drunk, but from wine). They had taken to alcohol shortly after dinner in what appeared to be a contest of wills. Both Austria and Veneziano had watched in disbelief as the two managed to drink their best stores to dust and cobwebs. Even Romano, who had take wine as his wife, quickly drank her every drop that he brought until he started reaching for the beer.

Veneziano tried to stop his brother from indulging, but he was rudely shoved back.

"Sorry, Veneziano! But let me try out this gross shit, huh?" And Romano drank.

As if spurred on by a demon, Germany had taken to drink like a starved man seeing food for the first time in days.

And so they drank and talked.

Much to the horror of the bystanders, they began talking in the midst of their drinking. The talking became arguing. Arguing escalated into yelling. Eventually, that soon evolved (devolved?) into whatever classification their current inclination brought them to.

Veneziano called it singing offkey.

Austria called it the screams of the damned.

Either way, the duo were so loud that both of their sober members of the party walked outside into the garden for relief.

It wasn't a particularly bright evening. Clouds had hidden the waxing moon from showing her face. The only other available light was the fluorescence from indoors, which was hidden by the gauzy curtains and windows. Regardless of the low visuals, they still managed to walk the length of Austria's somewhat well maintained garden before coming across a small stone bench—a gift that came from Prussia when he had been feeling charitable.

Veneziano settled onto the left. "This evening is turning out better than what I had envisioned."

Austria tutted softly before giving Veneziano a cup of tea. Ever the coffee drinker, the Italian still graciously thanked his host. The burn of alcohol keeping him warm was one thing, warmth from a fresh brew from an old friend was another.

"Careful," the brunet murmured near silently. "It's a touch scalding."

"You be careful," Veneziano sniped back with good humor. He took a measured sip and immediately wished he hadn't. "Whoa! You're just as bad as England when it comes to preparing tea!"

"With the amount of coffee you consume daily, one would think that you would have been used to the temperature."

Veneziano sputtered as he carefully placed the teach up the cold stone. "There's a difference, Austria! I live and die for coffee. Tea is…" He shrugged his shoulders.

The normally stoic Nation cracked a smile. "Perhaps if you had given me more than an hour's notice, I would have comfortably stocked up on one of your favorite brews."

"Didn't I give you two hours?"

"Apologies, I'll work faster in the interim."

Veneziano, unsurprisingly, let out a peal of laughter. It was a comforting sound when one was surrounded by darkness on all sides and one's house was now overrun with two drunk hooligans. Back when Austria had ruled over Veneziano, he didn't appreciate the beauty of such a heartfelt sound. Like most things in life, you could tell that Venziano poured his heart and soul into it. Each peal of laughter was another note struck on his piano like a childish rendition of Vivaldi's Spring.

When Veneziano finally sobered from his laughing spell, Austria spoke.

"Would you believe me if I said that I missed this?"

He could feel the stare of the Northern Italian peer up at his face. It had been a century, maybe two if he was doing the math right, but the young man was still a touch shorter than him. Ah, to be young again…

All too soon, the joviality of the evening gave way to a more somber mood. The change came as quickly as the clouds blocking the visage of the moon drifted away. Austria looked to his right, his hand still preoccupied with half a cup of lukewarm tea.

"You used to have the voice of an angel: high pitched, impressive range, and the brightness of one so young." He fiddled with the rim of his cup.

"And now? Do I sound like an angel?"

Austria shook his head. "I fear that it's been quite some time since I've personally heard your singing voice."

Did he mean to sound that cunning? Like a small child trying to convince his mother for one more treat before bed. Oh, how low had he sunk? However, he wasn't all too dishonest. It had been years since he and the Italian had a duet where the younger man had sung.

The auburn haired man must have the same thoughts because he looked up at the Austrian with an impish grin.

"I fear I can no longer sing without the aid of your music."

Austria felt his lips spread into a wide smile. "I doubt two drunkards would mind too much if it we added music to the frightful noise they're making. Certainly, my neighbors would have raised a fuss already."

Veneziano shrugged. That was enough as an answer as both men trekked back to the house—this time, the moonlight was strong and unobstructed.

Once inside the house, they were quite surprised to find that both of their guests had collapsed onto the floor, faces flushed, and bottles strewn around them. Further inspection revealed that both of them were out cold and at some point, they managed to switch their shirts and shoes. While Romano looked like he was only wearing a blanket atop his torso, Germany had foregone the action way of doing a shirt and opted to wrap it around his head.

A quick glance at his companion revealed that Veneziano had whipped out his cell phone and had begun to take several pictures. Blackmail material, no doubt. Austria may have scoffed at such childish behavior from a Nation as old as Italy, but thought of the aftermath filled him with unprecedented happiness. A part of him wished Prussia were here to take part in the festivities, but realized something crucial—the stupid albino would have turned his place upside down, drank his home dry, and paraded out into the street as bare as a newly birthed babe.

"Ah, it look like playing the piano now would be disastrous." Veneziano sighed in disappointment as he surveyed his brother trying to cuddle onto the floor. "I really wanted to sing with you again."

"Nobody would care if you were out of tune if you sing outside. It would be an honor to hear from you again."

For a moment, Austria thought that his companion would decline. It was almost two in the morning, the air outside was chilly, and—

"You have to sing with me, then."

If Austria thought himself cunning before, Veneziano was downright conniving.

"Very well then." Austria grinned at Veneziano. "Be sure to cover your ears. My proficiency at playing instruments outshines my ability to sing."

As one, they walked out into the garden under the gleaming moonlight.


	36. Unmasking

**35\. Unmasking**

Date Written: _October 29, 2019_

Date Posted_: November 2 2019_

Characters: _Veneziano, America_

Summary: _America tries out a little something on Veneziano. It does not go well. For America. _

Notes: _The Festival of Venice is world renowned for their elaborate masks and costumes._

* * *

America held up the mask up to his face and preened in the mirror. Ooooh, even though he knew that he was wearing the mask, America couldn't help but shudder in revulsion. Wow, this could just scare about anyone! Nodding to himself, America crept out of the restroom and—

"_Ciao_, America!" Italy hopped from one foot to the other as he tried to bypass the suddenly slack-jawed American. "What are you wearing? You look…" Italy huffed for a second, trying to say something that didn't sound remotely like an insult before shrugging. There were just some things that you don't talk about...even if America looked horrifically like something that Italy had drawn only a few weeks before and had unceremoniously thrown into the trash.

"Y-ou're not…" America took off his mask, almost as if he were at a funeral and he was being very solemn. "You're not scared?"

Italy looked at him oddly.

"Should I be?"

"Yes!" America leaned back against the door to the restroom (Italy balked at that, he really, desperately needed to go!) and quietly slumped a little—but not so much as to wrinkle his suit. Honestly, if the rules of polity weren't in place, Italy would have catapulted over the blond American and have his way with the restroom. Unfortunately, Italy was far too polite to do that, so he just made do with continuously hopping from one foot to the other. "Well, yeah? It's the Halloween season and well—" America put his head into his hands. "England has been acting pissy lately."

Italy refused the urge to bowl over America.

His instincts desperately yelled at him to go forth into the bathroom, but the call of friendship had him turning to the American so that they could talk candidly to each other.

Call him what you will, but Italy was not a coward when it came to coming to an ally's defense.

"Is England mad at you?"

America shrugged. "He's always annoyed at me in general, but this time...this time he's been pissy because of his government wanting to do this or that—I don't know, it's all bogus or whatever. I just wanted to cheer him up."

Italy's eyes were wide as saucers.

"By scaring him?"

Italy's tone, being skeptical, had America looking at him again.

"You really don't think it's scary, do you?"

"_Amico_, if it doesn't scare me, that doesn't mean it won't scare England." In an offhand tone, Italy said, "I'm much more used to violence and gore than most people would like to admit. Also, I have my own festivals that pretty much use masks all the time, so I'm already desensitized to the concept." Italy thought for a second. "You should come visit the Carnival of Venice sometime."

"You're kidding."

"Remember those movies that we watched?" Italy waggled his brows as America uneasily laughed at those memories. "Besides, you might get England to laugh or something...wouldn't that be a better resolution to your problem?"

America thought for a second. "To be honest, he would rather laugh at me than get mad."

Italy said, "And wouldn't that be all right?" He tapped his feet together, still wanting to go to the bathroom and get his business over and done with. He took America's shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Try and go scaring England, yeah? At the very least you'll have tried out how… scary your mask is!"

America smiled and helped Italy up from the floor.

Although he didn't say anything, Italy was thinking to himself that he was finally able to have some peace. Rejoice! For he finally made it inside!

As he situated himself into one of the urinals, he found himself listening hard. And then—

"America, you bellend! What the—"

Italy allowed himself to smile a little at himself.

It appears that America's mask was indeed quite scary to some.


	37. Keep Your Mouth Shut

**36\. Keep Your Mouth Shut**

Date Written: _March 21, 2019_

Date Posted_: January 4, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _A young secretary finds herself in a dangerous situation with only the Italian representative for help._

Notes:

* * *

Really now, it was probably not her fault for getting herself stuck in this mess. But—! The American economy was rapidly going down in shambles, she needed the money to pay back her student loans, and to top it all off, it would give her an edge when it came to job hunting. How could she, above average student of her class with ambitions in global affairs, say no?

Sure, she was required to leave the country (she always wanted to travel).

Sure, she had to brush up on her French and Spanish to appear somewhat competent (her mother was Mexican and she had friends in French class in high school).

And sure, she had to babysit some diplomat who looked way too young to hold that position (at least he was different from those other bigwig bureaucrats).

In all honesty, it was equal parts boring and downright terrifying.

Boring: she had to be present for whatever meetings she had accompanied her charge on.

Terrifying: the meeting was held with only eight people and whatever interns the delegates had brought. That is… only two other interns, then.

Now, she knew she was competent; Mr. Jones had told her so and her dedication had come to high praise. However, she couldn't help but feel small when compared to the other interns and the delegates. Especially the delegates. How each of them attained… such a high position was something she can barely fathom.

A quick conversation with the intern from Japan and one from Canada revealed that they, too, felt a little overwhelmed by how young they looked. When she had first received the job, she expected to see a grizzled old man, fifty at the youngest. To see a bouncy ball full of energy that came with humorous dad jokes was a surprise when it came to the American delegate.

Her companion, so to speak, was one Alfred F. Jones. What 'F' stood for, she did not know nor did she care to find out—frankly, she was too scared to even ask. His enthusiasm was too overwhelming, like the copious amounts of frosting that can be found on any pastry in America.

When compared to the rest of the delegates, he was certainly the best and worst that America had to offer. He was creative and brilliant, but his innovative genius was eclipsed by his brash and loud personality. Time and time again, she had to wonder how he came across the job. He looked like he came straight from university! Not only that, but he also acted so… so completely America that she sometimes (most of the time) she would wish that he would just sit down and shut up! Geeze, it was like babysitting a twelve year old with a god complex sometimes.

He was just too stereotypically American to the point where she received second hand embarrassment just from his presentations and speeches.

However, much to her horror and confusion, the rest of the G8 delegates were all quite the stereotypes from their respective cultures.

(She really didn't want to get into that. They were a headache and a letdown unto themselves.)

Regardless, it was an interesting experience.

After one of those summits that required the presence of all eight of the delegates, something nagged at the back of her mind. She had just been in the middle of getting a late night dinner with her charge when she realized that she had forgotten something back at the meeting hall. While she wasn't that bad a secretary (in fact, she might say she was exemplary), she was far from perfect. Cursing her forgetfulness, she clumsily apologized to Mr. Jones ("_Dude, call me Al!_") and hurried back.

If she remembered correctly, she had forgotten a crisp, manila envelope with several legal documents detailing… what exactly? She thought to herself while she hurried back. It had something to do with the environment—

Crash!

With a flurry of papers and flailing arms, she had just narrowly avoided kissing the ground when she felt a pair of arms encircle her waist. Upon opening her eyes, she found herself face to face with—

"Ciao, bella!"

Oh, it was him. When she had first been introduced to the Italian representative, she had expected… well. Honestly, she didn't know what to expect. Italian stereotypes were well known all over the world. They were relatively happy, easy going, womanizing, etc. and well… he was all of those things. She didn't know what to do after he had dropped a kiss on her hand and complimented her beauty, but she thought about giving the Italian something close to the glare that Mr. Jones had been sending the Italian if he got too close.

Furthermore, she had been expecting a more traditional Italian name. Like, you know, Francesco, Giusseppe, Giovanni. Feliciano was really Italian sounding, but it was far from the usual fare that she remembered from old Italian movies and such. And wasn't Vargas a Spanish name?

And—

"_Bella_, are you all right? You seem faint."

Despite her initial feeling of annoyance, she immediately plastered on a tense smile before answering him.

"O-oh! I'm doing great!" She hurriedly moved out of his hold and started to gather her fallen papers. Much to her relief, the Italian dropped down to one knee as well and began scooping up her fallen materials in earnest. With his help, she managed to grab all the documents in record timing.

She thanked him, but this time, the smile on her face was far more genuine. "I'll be going now. Again, thanks!"

A mischievous sparkled gleamed in his eyes. "Already tired of me?" At her bemused glare, the Italian simply laughed before waving her away—a distinct invitation for her to leave, one that she gladly took. "Very well, have a pleasant evening."

And with that, she was gone and back on the clock.

The thing about these conferences was that there were always a lot of people milling about in these circles. However, once the head of the meeting adjourned everyone, there was always a blank space that was left behind. It was eerie because there used to be a lot of people milling about—to see the overwhelming expanse of the empty meeting hall was quite… disturbing to say the least. After a few seconds of surveying the space, she was about to turn to leave when—

Suddenly, she was yanked by the hair and an enormous gloved hand covered her mouth. Her first instinct was to scream and thrash in this person's hold. Her second instinct was to immediately kick her legs behind her; she had a feeling that her assailant was male. However, that did little to disrupt the attacker from stopping. If anything, his hold grew ever tighter and then—

A cloth was shoved forcefully onto her face.

Desperate to escape, she continued to writhe in her attacker's hold until…

Everything…

Fell…

Into…

Darkness…

.

.

.

She awoke to find herself disoriented and groggy. Her throat ached with thirst while her head was throbbing with a migraine. As she tried to move about in her position, she found that her wrists and ankles were bound to a chair. Further analysis revealed that she was not just simply sitting in the dark, there was a blindfold around her eyes.

This was not good.

What had happened?

"H-hello?" She called out cautiously. "Is anyone there?"

There was a shuffling noise and a squeak of surprise.

"You're the nice lady from before."

Oh crap. It was the Italian representative.

"Yeah, I'm the secretary for Mr. Jones." Her voice rapidly became more shrill and fast paced the more she kept talking. "What's going on? What are you doing here?" _What am I doing here_, she thought. She dared not think of the word kidnapped. It was much too soon and she would rather not think about that as of the moment. Now was not the time for panicking. "I-I can't see anything."

She hated to admit it, but her heart was practically leaping over her throat at the sudden silence.

Was she alone again?

"P-please—" She winced at the way her voice cracked from the strain of tension; she wasn't made for situations like these. "—I can't—"

"Ah, _belladonna_… I want you to trust me." His voice, while airy as usual, had an edge of steel that caused the woman's throat to go dry from fear. She had not known the Italian representative for long, but the way he sounded… it was not natural. It was like watching a dull blade—a toy knife, maybe—become sharpened into a dangerous tool. "I need you to keep quiet and to remain calm."

Despite herself, the woman found herself cracking up in hysterics. "Keep calm…. I am keeping calm and—"

There was a sound of a door banging in their close vicinity. At the sound, the woman fell silent and she could hear the sound of a whistle being blown. This was it. Her kidnappers were here.

She was going to die.

**She was going to die.**

_**She was going to die.**_

There was no way she was going to get out of this place alive. After all, she was nothing more than a glorified secretary. The Italian representative on the other hand, she was betting that he was far more valuable than her. He was a politician and he was European, two things that were going to get him out of this place alive.

To her surprise, the Italian representative spoke. "What do you want from me? Leave the lady alone and just talk to me. No need for violence."

Gone was the airy voice from before. Instead, there was something steely and something… more to his voice than what she was used to hearing from the Italian. Again, there was that feeling that something was off—like the Italian was not supposed to sound like that.

Was his change in personality a good or bad omen?

She was scared and frightened. Should she speak up? Should she let the Italian talk for the both of them? There seemed to be no choice because the Italian began speaking up again.

"Is it because I'm a Nation?"

The woman had no time to process what she had just heard before a low voice, of the baritone sort, spoke up.

"That remains to be seen. You're a cowardly pick among the rest of the bunch."

"If it weren't for the fact that I was tied up, I would—" His English devolved into Italian, a language that the woman was not aware of.

For a time, their kidnapper and the Italian conversed in the musical language before the woman found herself with racing thoughts in her head.

Was this it? Was this the end of her? Of the both of them?

She had barely lived life; she was barely out of university!

And then—

There was the sound of a scuffle happening. Before she could cry out in fear, she found her blindfold being taken out from her face and she found herself staring eye to eye with gold brown eyes. They were kind and nurturing as he asked her questions about her health.

For a moment, all she could do was nod dumbly as the Italian loosened her bonds and helped her out of her chair.

"You did a wonderful job, _belladonna_." He paused before settling his warm hands on her face so that she was stuck only looking up at him. "Now here's the tricky part. I want you to keep your eyes on me. Do not look around, eyes only on me."

The woman was a little irritated, but the scuffle… it sounded horrible, as if it were a symphony of bones breaking and a body thudding on the floor, probably lifeless.

In the end, she soundlessly nodded her head and began to follow his lead.

She was definitely not paid enough for this job.


	38. The Other Brother

**37\. The Other Brother**

Date Written: _March 24, 2019_

Date Posted_: January 11, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Veneziano and Romano have a conversation about Grandpa Rome and other relations. _

Notes:

* * *

_It had happened a long time ago._

_Stories, back then, were told by word of mouth, often accompanied with the warmth and love of a fire. But stories just don't spring up out of nothing. They are brought forth, birthed into the abled tongues of storytellers. One such story came about when two young boys were taken in by a she-wolf. _

_For a time, they had no names. They were simply hairless pups who stood on two legs and communicated in song. But, as like most stories are wont to do, that soon changed. Both boys of the she-wolf—_

"I've heard that story time and time again," South Italy grumbled groggily. He leaned his head against the headboard of their bed, his eyes still blinking away the dredges of sleep. Although a wayward yawn escaped the confines of his mouth, he still looked regal and classy as he leveled an even stare at his younger brother. "Why are you reciting that myth when I was in the middle of sleeping?"

North Italy looked to his older brother, a sheepish look of embarrassment on his lightly tanned features. He was perched on the edge of Romano's bed, a pillow clutched in between his hands. His fingers, long and slender, alternated between grasping the cloth of the pillow firmly or gently. Inwardly, he savored this sensation as if it were the finest wine.

He just didn't want to let this moment of peace to go to waste.

"I just…" Veneziano shrugged helplessly as he rested his gaze at a point above Romano's shoulder. "I couldn't sleep and I was thinking about the old stories."

He spoke in a whisper that Romano had to crane and strain to hear. Now that the haze of slumber had been lifted from his eyes, Romano was more than aware that there was something wrong with his brother. For one, it appeared that Veneziano looked like he hadn't slept a wink since they had finished their shared batch of paperwork that had been assigned to them earlier that week. For another, Veneziano looked like a kicked puppy expecting more punishment. Normally, Romano would have chalked it all up to botching up some important legal matters or getting on the bad side of one of their friends, but this was different.

Veneziano's eyes were wide eyed, but did not hold the glassy look of someone who was light hearted and merry. No, instead, the look in his eyes were lit with a feverish flame of only the most desperate or the most crazed could ever have. It was a look of a man who wanted to seek something that should never be answered.

And yet.

Yet, Romano indulged him.

"What of the old stories?" Romano leaned towards his brother, a hand outstretched and ready to calm the Venetian down if need be.

Veneziano took the hand that his brother had offered him before a small smile turned up the corners of his lips. The fire that had been alight in his eyes had dimmed so that his eyes appeared to be a dull shade of rustic brown. It was a saddening sight, but Romano much preferred that his little brother not lose his sanity to the cold of the night and of the call of some unknown past.

"There were two boys… two raised by the she-wolf." Veneziano unceremoniously threw himself backwards, his body lying on top of Romano's lap, which elicited a small groan of pain and surprise at the action. Veneziano either didn't notice or had elected to ignore the small noise that his brother had emitted. "Do you think… do you think that Grandpa Rome wasn't the only one?"

Underneath the moonlight, Veneziano's visage seemed to change. Romano didn't know how to say it, but it was like watching his brother age. Slowly, the baby fat had sharpened into straight lines and flat planes. What used to be large eyes filled with warmth gradually narrowed and hardened. No longer did his eyes radiate with warmth and healing, there was only calculation and steel.

At that moment, Romano was reminded of their predecessor.

But.

But, Veneziano wasn't an exact replica of Grandpa Rome.

"Are you trying to say that there was another Grandpa Rome?" The older brother played with the strands of his brother's hair. It was a lazy action, but perhaps it was motivated by the fact that he didn't want to watch his brother become so utterly different under the guise of moonlight and odd epiphanies in the dead of night. "That the myth is truer than what most people let on?"

Veneziano shook his head. "No, not like another Grandpa Rome… do you think that he was like us? That he had a brother?"

Romano shrugged. "It's more than possible. In the struggle for power and survival, maybe Grandpa Rome decided to… well, you know what happens in takeovers for prestige and legacies." He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Or rather, the story that you've been talking stupidly about is just that. A story."

The Veneziano that Romano had known for centuries was slowly brought back to the forefront of Veneziano's very being. He was back to the foolish, young man that had somehow found himself cuddling into the sides of Romano's legs.

"Romano! Why are you so mean to me?"

The older brother rolled his shoulders back before shoving his brother off his legs and onto the unforgiving planes of the hardwood flooring beside the bed. Aside from the thud and muttered curses that fell unabashedly from Veneziano's mouth, Romano decided to leave no comment.

"So that's just it then?" North Italy demanded. "It's just a story? That Grandpa Rome didn't have some secret twin and—"

"Why are you so adamant that Grandpa Rome had some secret twin?" Romano demanded. He settled his gaze on his younger brother who had taken to sitting cross legged on the floor. "First you wake me up from my sleep and now you're spouting nonsense about things that have no bearing on today's issues."

Veneziano rubbed the back of his head in apology. "Sorry about that. I don't really have a good reason if I'm being honest with myself."

"Hmph. I would think Grandpa Rome would have seen fit to tell at least one of his successors about a presence of a secret twin or something."

At that, Romano leaned over the side of his bed and held out his hand to his brother.

Veneziano took it.

"I'm sorry for waking you up so late tonight. It's just that… I'm grateful to have a brother like you. I just…" Veneziano's eyes furrowed as he sought for the right words to say. "It must have been lonely to have become an empire by himself, right? It would have been so much easier to have a twin born from the same womb, raised by the same wolf, and to have the same ambitions for greatness. I just don't want Grandpa to be lonely."

Romano slapped the back of Veneziano's head.

"_Idiota_! Didn't one of the twins kill the other!" Romano shook his head. "Besides, Grandpa wasn't lonely. Want to know why?"

Veneziano looked up at him, a question in his eyes.

Heaving a big sigh, he answered, "Because he had us and the rest of our siblings, stupid. My God, it's like you don't have a brain."

Veneziano socked him in the head for that one.


	39. Bass-ic Courtesy

**38\. Bass-ic Courtesy**

Date Written: _March 24, 2019_

Date Posted: _January 18, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Romano violates one of the basic rules of borrowing._

Notes: _Will remain unfinished, but please enjoy what I have so far._

* * *

Really, it shouldn't have been too hard to figure out. When a person borrowed something, no matter how small or insignificant, you, as the borrower, were required to bring back that certain something in perfect condition. Anything less was a serious violation against the basics of propriety and courtesy. If one was serious enough or the thing that was borrowed was something really important, it could practically be considered a war crime.

Such was the reasoning when Italia Veneziano stormed into his brother's office. At first glance, it seemed that the Northern Italian looked like his normal cheery self. However, if one were to look closer, they could see the faint tremble in his hands, the stern demeanor and coldness in his eyes.

"Romano."

The other Italian representative, bombarded with work and several emails from his boss, didn't spare him a glance. Instead, all Veneziano received was the universal sign of disrespect and a few Italian derivatives. While most other Nations would have immediately left, Veneziano was not deterred.

Like a roaring hurricane, the auburn haired man stormed his way towards his brother and held something in his hands. The object dangled from his hands and directly in front of Romano's line of sight.

This time, not only did Veneziano receive a finger salute, he also got a scowl and a grumbed threat to trash Veneziano's house.

Veneziano scowled. "Romano."

Extra emphasis was placed on jangling the object in front of Romano.

"Fine." The older Italian derisively pressed the 'send' button and faced his brother. "What do you want?"

Veneziano waved the object in front of Romano again.

"And?" Romano's eyebrows rose, disinterest still clear in his eyes. "What do your earbuds have anything to do with me?"

"You borrowed them."

"I recall."

"You _borrowed _them."

Veneziano jangled his pair of earbuds once again. For a moment, Romano's eyes flickered from the pair of earbuds and back to his brother's unflinching gaze. Normally, any other person would have been unnerved by such a look from someone famed to be so happy go lucky suddenly look so severe.

Romano arched an eyebrow. "Was I not supposed to?"

"The right bud does not work."

"Yeah, your earbuds are trash. I can't believe you wasted your money on something so breakable."

At that moment, the younger Italian dropped himself on top of Romano's office desk; he was sitting atop and amidst piles of paperwork. A few documents riddled with harsh handwriting were cast askew onto the ground while Veneziano remained seated like a gargoyle.

Veneziano's eyes flashed in anger.

"They were working perfectly fine when I bought them—before I let you borrow them." The younger Italian learned into his brother's space, the look of what could be considered pure malice hiding behind his eyes.

Romano pushed his brother away with the flat of his palm. Although he put little force behind the gesture, Veneziano obliged by allowing the movement.

"And I already told you, they were already broken! The left side is so weak I can hardly hear the bass!"

"Because of you!"

"No, it's because you don't take good care of your things!"

Veneziano's practically gleamed red as he pounced at his brother. "Have you looked at your house? So many valuables strewn about with garbage. Have you no shame? Do you think I like picking up after your crap? Newsflash, idiot—"

"Since when have I ever asked for your help? You have the audacity to come in—"

"—and you think that I like having to ask Germany to help clean our house? It's beyond embarrassing. In fact I bet—"

"—do you realized how much I don't need your help? I can manage things on my own because—"

"—Nonno would be ashamed!"

"—Nonno named me as heir, you're just a pile of lagoons!"

For a moment, both brothers stood staring each other down. Brown met green as the younger loomed over the older. Fists were flexed and their breaths became haggard.


	40. Beauty in All Things

**39\. Beauty in all Things**

Date Written: _March 24, 2019_

Date Posted: _January 25, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Liechtenstein_

Summary: _Liechtenstein just recently cut her hair to show her appreciation for her brother. Unfortunately, she still feels a little self conscious about it._

Notes: _Takes place during those scenes in the anime where it's all about Liechtenstein's relationship with her brother._

* * *

"You cut your hair?"

Liechtenstein nodded; she was a bit surprised that Mr. Italy was talking to her. "Ah… I thought that it would… help show my appreciation for my big brother."

For a moment, the much older Nation gazed at her, a look of utter confusion on his face. When the silence continued for far longer than was necessary, the young girl felt the roundness of her cheeks catch fire, the tips of her ears blooming dusty rose. In shame, she cast her eyes to the ground, too aware of the fact that she had probably made a fool of herself.

A finger lifted her chin and she caught sight of the Italian smiling in reassurance. "My apologies, sweet Liechtenstein! I just thought that it was really inspiring for you to support your brother!"

Her dark green eyes widened at his admission. "A-are you saying that because you mean it or—"

As such was the fashion of all Latin Nations, Italy had dropped down on one knee, head tilted upward as if he were a knight in front of his chosen lady. Liechtenstein may not have been born amidst the romantic era of gallant men slaying enemies to win fair lady's hand, but she did allow a breathless little laugh to escape her lips.

Oh, how silly he looked! She may not have the audacity to say such a thing to a Nation a few millennia her senior, but the twinkle in his eyes probably felt like he knew how she felt.

"_Bella ragazza_," he began as the blonde flushed further at such sweet address. "Why would I ever have the gall to mislead you? You are just as beautiful as the morning star or the edelweiss that grows on your fields. Long hair or short hair, I cannot deny your beauty."

And perhaps it was his archaic way of speaking or the fact that several onlookers were busy trying not to look like they were observing, but the girl felt a mirthful laugh leave her. It was a joyous little thing that brought smiles to anyone who heard her. It was a laugh that reverberated from her chest and out her mouth, the force of which had her almost keeling over.

"Are you always—" A snort. "—this enchanting—" Another giggle. "—Mr. Italy?"

"Well," the Italian remarked as he gracefully swept himself up to his feet and offered the blonde his right arm, "I should hope so. All beautiful ladies deserve to be enchanted."

He paused and reached for her violet hair ribbon to straighten it.

My, her new hairstyle was such a lovely thing indeed!


	41. Self Preservation and Games

**40\. Self Preservation And Games**

Date Written: _March 26, 2019_

Date Posted_: February 1, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Sealand_

Summary: _The Nations are at a meeting. They bring out some board games and the like. Sealand tries to sneak in. __**Mission Failure**__. Call in the Italian. _

Notes:

* * *

The best thing about international meetings was that their bosses technically didn't expect much from their respective Nations. Yes, Nations were supposed to play nice and maintain positive relationships, but treaties and specific legal procedures were best left in the hands of politicians. Work was already a mountain high stack of documents, why increase the workload? Even the most studious Nations felt it necessary to relax during meetings.

As such it came as no surprise when Switzerland, of all Nations, just happened to bring a battered old chessboard with wooden pieces. He had been planning to play against Austria and Germany for old times' sake, but with all things considered… the rest of the European Nations decided to join in.

And when the Europeans were clamoring over something that was not football, the Americas (specifically _that _loudmouth) had to get involved.

And when _that_ loudmouth decided to open his mouth, the Africans, Asians, and the members of Oceans were henceforth involved as well.

Some Nations decided to spectate the battle between Austria and Switzerland. Others decided to take matters into their own hands. There were decks of old cards that were shuffled and dealt (and if a couple of them happened to be of Japanese origin bearing strange creatures, no one really cared). Other Nations brought in other games (China brought mahjong, Egypt brought his own mother's old games, etc.). Still, others, opted to handcraft hockey pucks out of whiteboard erasers and hockey sticks from dusty brooms (namely Canada).

And like all things that happened to evade regulation and restriction, they just happened to spin rapidly out of control.

Mahjong and chess were combined in an unholy effort to prove one's intelligence was higher than the other. Cards of all different sorts were mixed together, rules were added and subtracted, and money was rapidly won as often as they were lost. On one side of the meeting hall, Canada and several wintry Nations (and a few of the curious tropics) decided to replace the eraser with a football ("_Not that kind of football, America_").

Chaos.

Pure and utter chaos.

And Sealand wanted in.

"Can't I pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top go inside? It sounds like a fun!" The little boy with his cute outfit tried his utmost to appear angelic in front of the guard. However, perhaps it was due to Sealand's rapid use of English or the man's lack of understanding, but the sprightly Micronation found himself turned away.

In a huff, Sealand stomped away and sat on an aged armchair meant for visitors. "Those jerks! They're not even working!"

"Hmm? Has the meeting not started yet?"

The military fort's personification looked up from his crossed arms to get a good look at the young man who happened to sit opposite him in an identical armchair. Although the man looked like any old politician, Sealand knew who he really was.

"You're Mr. Italy!"

The Italian smiled.

"My brother has told me many things about you!"

The smile disappeared.

"Ah… you're England's little brother? Sea… land?"

A smile so broad that it could have split his face in two bloomed on Sealand's face. Was this it? Was this the moment that he was waiting for? His tiny body vibrated from the excitement. Could it be that this Nation, the one whom England didn't always have the best opinions of, was going to acknowledge his status?

As a Nation?

Oh, he sincerely wished that Sweden hadn't revoked his phone privileges for the week. Well, even if the couldn't document the best moment of his life, he could still talk to his newly acquired ally and—

Wait! Was Mr. Italy leaving?

"Hey!" Sealand made a grab for the older Nation's sleeve, but found himself pitching forward onto the tiled floor. With pain landing up from his side, the little Nation found himself blinking indignant tears out of his eyes. "Aren't you going to acknowledge me?"

"Um…" The Italian hid an uncomfortable smile with a cough as he extracted a hand to the Micronation. Although it was rude of Sealand to rebuke his help with a scowl, Italy was far too used to England's rebuffing nature. "Why not wait until you're older?"

"But Wy was acknowledged!"

Italy paused. "Different circumstances?"

The young boy scowled. No answer.

Italy knelt down, his actions purposely made slow. It was a graceful movement, one that heralded attention, but eased Sealand into a state of calm. If he was going to yell at him, the best approach was to remain standing.

"You know… I can sneak you into the meeting since you seem so excited."

"Y-you… you would do that? For me?" Stunned, the boy looked ready to collapse again, but he just barely managed to stand his ground. Despite the sudden spike in excitement, there was still a thing veneer of distrust within his clear blue eyes. "But will you acknowledge me?"

The Italian pursed his lips. If he were any other person, his patience would have slipped, but really… he knew the pitfalls and the aching needs to be included. It was hell to be pushed aside and treated as if he wasn't important. He had known that feeling for far too long to consider it anything less than a friend.

"One thing at a time, _bambino_." He chuckled and rose to his full height, the might of a former empire settling on his shoulders. "I heard that they were playing football."

"With hockey sticks!"


	42. Confessional

**41\. Confessional**

Date Written: _March 26, 2019_

Date Posted_: February 8, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, Vaticano_

Summary: _Veneziano's anger is like that of a mountain of rocks. Too many rocks and the mountain would come crumbling down. Today, Veneziano's anger overcomes him. _

Notes: _It has been noted in recent years that the younger generation of Italians, usually those in the north usually are not as religious as their elders. Furthermore, it appears that as time passes by, less people are defining themselves as Catholic or Christian, instead they are conforming more to a secularized world. What is most surprising, considering that Italy is home to the Vatican, is that church attendance has been rapidly declining in the past decade._

* * *

Veneziano was pissed.

It wasn't everyday that he felt this emotion. Often, if he were to feel the slightest hint of negativity, he would let such a feeling slide. Emotions were temporary and fleeting, but he could damn well hold onto happiness. The thing was, such a habit of brushing aside negativity did not prove to be a viable solution. Small irritants were cast aside like sweeping dust under the rug, bigger causes of anger made their way into the darker parts of his subconscious.

But, like all materials that were cast aside without a thought, they accumulated. Incrimently yes, but when left unchecked, the small pile of cast off negativity grew to be an unfathomable mountain of epic proportions. And when one continuously kept adding to that pile, one day… one little inconvenience… one casually thrown incident… could disrupt the fragile balance that Veneziano maintained.

And today was that day.

His morning had been going splendidly well. Cup of coffee, a handful of biscotti, and warm sun had done nothing but to lift his mood. Then, his brother came in bearing a conflicted expression and car keys. Like always, there was a customary scowl on his face as he practically shoved his brother into the passenger side.

"Romano, where—"

"Shut your mouth, _stronzo_. Just remember I'm doing this for your own good."

Any and all further questioning led to his brother accelerating through the streets, an endeavor that led to several pedestrians angry and drivers outraged. Knowing that his brother was probably going to start massacring innocents (not really, but it was better to be safe), the Northern Italian decided to lean back and mindlessly mutter about all the paperwork that he was supposed to do. All the while, he kept a keen eye to where his destination was.

That incident and silence was the first stone thrown upon the precarious mountain.

But, Veneziano kept smiling.

The drive was quaint and fairly uneventful.

As Romano drove, Veneziano thought that his brother was just joking with him. There was no way that Romano could have been mad at him, he had been good all week! He did his share of the household chores, his paperwork was done ahead of time, and he didn't have Germany over the weekend. What could he have possibly done to warrant such treatment from his brother? Furthermore, where were they going?

It wasn't until Veneziano lazily looked out the window to see that they were coming across a small church that was sitting lazily outside the outskirts of a small town. Upon closer inspection, it looked almost abandoned, what with the cracked stained glass windows, the rusted padlock that rested on the ground opposite the open door, and the lonely atmosphere that permeated the air. Inside, the dank air hung low and heavy around his head as Veneziano uneasily made his way inside.

"Umm, Romano?" Veneziano tiptoed past the doorway, mindful of the debris that lay on the ground. "You're not here to kill me, are you? Because I'd rather wake up at home instead of—"

And that's when Veneziano saw him.

His face was withered and wrinkled, as if all the moisture had been sucked out of his face over the past few centuries. His eyes, dark and impassive, stared at Veneziano with a knowing gaze. Veneziano fancied that he could have seen a flash of mischief enter his eyes before it was chased away by the telltale presence of paternal disappointment. Looking away from those knowing, near omnipotent eyes, Veneziano managed to spot that the Nation before him was wearing the traditional cassock meant for priests—black and with the standard thirty three buttons. The pellegrina that sat atop the Nation's shoulder flared slightly as he stood tall from his seat from one of the still standing pews.

"Veneziano…" The Italian Nation murmured softly. He held out both arms in a gesture that welcomed hugs. "It's been a while."

Stiff as a board, Veneziano silently stepped towards his relation. As he stepped, he could hear—feel—the sound of debris getting crushed under the heels of his expensive shoes. Finally, when he was merely a hair's breadth away from embracing the Nation, Veneziano stopped and regarded him coolly.

"Vaticano, I know you're here not to play nice. Just get on with it and I'll be on my way."

Behind him, Veneziano could hear Romano suck in a sharp breath. It was a disappointed sound that did little to belie how uncomfortable he was with the whole situation. Veneziano refused the urge to scream at his brother. Why should he have to feel uncomfortable? He was the one to orchestrate this meeting. He wasn't the one who had to confront this… this… This man!

A stray, ancient hand reached out and gently brushed strands of Veneziano's auburn hair away from his forehead. Much to his dismay, Veneziano realized that with that action, his hair was plastered back; he was sweating so much already.

The Micronation's face was puckered into a grimace at Veneziano's cold reception. He looked, dare Veneziano say it, hurt by his actions.

It wasn't Veneziano's fault.

Not everything was Veneziano's fault.

Yet another stone was cast onto the pile.

Veneziano took a step back and glanced at a point above the Vatican's right shoulder. "If you want to spend more time with Romano, be my guest." Veneziano faced the door. "I'll be waiting in the car."

"Veneziano!" Romano's harsh voice rang out through the open space. The acoustics were phenomenal in this small church, but Veneziano was far too busy trying to ignore the flush of angered heat that spread from the tips of his ears to his neck. "You can't just go around disrespecting—"

The Micronation held up a hand. "Peace, Romano. Why don't you go wait outside? Veneziano and I have matters to discuss."

As the sound of Romano's shoes clicked out of the church and into the afternoon air outside, Veneziano turned to face the Vatican. Although Veneziano blatantly refused to meet the older man's kind eyes, he compromised by looking at the man's greying hair, how strands of silver began to dominate some areas of his scalp.

"Would you like to sit?"

Veneziano shrugged. "This won't be long. I'll stand." A beat. "I've been going to mass once a week."

The Vatican, although a Nation through and through, gingerly navigated his way towards a pew and sat down heavily. His appearance and mannerisms were that of a human rapidly approaching their twilight years.

Veneziano bit back a sneer.

Pathetic.

"Is that all?"

"What also do you want from me?" Veneziano stuck his hands into his pockets and slumped forward, his poor posture a small rebellion within the presence of a Nation who may not have been more powerful than him, but was far more important to the Republic of Italy if anyone had a say in it. "I go to mass, I help tourists from getting lost, I don't get into fights during meetings…" North Italy's voice trailed off. Try as he might, these were merely excuses, small tokens of small things that would have appeased someone of lesser standing.

The Vatican was no such person.

"I can see the truth in your eyes, child." Veneziano flinched. "But you've neglected something important."

Veneziano squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to risk the presence of angry tears to ruin the image of an unaffected young politician. Unfortunately, that didn't stop the Vatican from rising slowly from his pew and tottering slowly towards the younger man.

"And what—"

Before Veneziano could finish, he felt a pair of arms encircle him around the width of his shoulders pulling him slightly forward, slightly downward into a hug.

"You haven't been coming down to visit me, my child. Dear Veneziano," Vaticano looked up at Northern Italy, his face searching for something in the younger man's face. "You don't have to carry burdens by yourself. Romano comes to me every so often… it's been years since I've seen you."

And it was at that moment, Veneziano glanced down at fully faced Vatican for the first time that afternoon.

If Veneziano could glance past the withered face, the silvery strands and greying sheen of hair, Veneziano could look straight into the Vatican's eyes and saw—

He saw—

He saw impossibly, deep dark eyes. Brown as the tilled fields, as impossibly ageless and eternal as his own.

Grandpa Rome's eyes.

And it was at that moment, Veneziano felt himself sink down to the floor weeping.

The mountain had toppled and crumbled into the dusty remains of old, fading memories and the residue of something that could never be remembered.

Romano should have never brought him to this place.


	43. Averting a Crisis

**42\. Averting a Crisis**

Date Written: _March 27, 2019_

Date Posted_: February 15, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Germany_

Summary: _Veneziano receives a disturbing phone call bearing bad news._

Notes:

* * *

Veneziano could feel his phone slip from his sweaty fingers and clatter onto his table. Normally, he would have taken care to set his phone gently, but after the news that had just been relayed to him…

There was a dull ringing in his ears, a throbbing in his head. As his eyes blearily blinked in and out of focus, he fell to his knees. There was a brief moment when he registered pain, but he dully basked in the sensation. A part of him wanted to reorient himself, but instead, he tried to focus all of his energies in trying to stay afloat in a world that had ever so slightly tilted out of balance.

Atop the table, he could hear the startled shouts of the speaker—they had obviously taken the clatter and the subsequent thud of Veneziano hitting the floor to be a bad sign. It was rude to leave the caller without having the courtesy to use the "end call" button, but it was far too late. The Italian had more important things to contemplate than societal propriety.

No, all he could think about was—

"You've been muttering to yourself for the past thirty seconds," Germany observed. He cast an unamused glance down at his whimpering friend before relenting to a dose of curiosity. "What did America talk to you about?"

Venziano flung himself with arms outstretched to embrace the blond's thick legs. "It's so terrible, Germany! I can feel the gaping maws of hell descend upon me!"

Germany decisively breathed in through his nose. Speaking poetically. Acting dramatically. Tears. Everywhere. What America had said must have been pretty terrible. Or, the Italian was just being himself. Regardless, Germany patted the young man's head as awkwardly as possible.

"Did he make a new pizza that could be made combining hamburger meat and other American atrocities?"

A muffled sniffle. "Worse."

"Pasta that has been deep fried and coated with the base essence of ketchup?'

"Worse."

Germany sighed before gesturing to the phone that still lay on the table. One didn't have to pay attention to hear the concerned and muffled speaking of a certain American. The young country was just that loud.

"This will be my final guess, but if I'm wrong, then you will have to tell me." After affirming the deal, Germany guessed. "He kidnapped Romano."

Veneziano looked up from his crying fest to glare weakly at the German.

"That in itself isn't a bad thing."

"... so what happened?"

"America told me that he found out that there was a certain vicious species of parasite that only attacks wheat!"

Confused, Germany gave no answer.

Veneziano glared at his long time neighbor and friend. Just how could Germany not recognize the implications of such a travesty? The Italian pushed himself off the ground and stood straight and firm, like a soldier at attention. For the first time in a decade, the German felt a small lick of fear at his friend's seriousness. What did America tell him?

"That means the prices for flour would increase due to the scarcity of wheat! Increase in prices of flour would impact the food industry! The impact on the food industry would affect the foods being produced in my home! And you know what that affects? That affects how much pasta I can produce! Which means," Veneziano yelled, "no more pasta!"

For a moment, Germany was in a state of shock. If only Veneziano had the presence of mind to make such analyses whenever they had international meetings. As if stood, however, the crying Italian cared far too much about the state of his pasta.

It was time to set things straight.

"It was a joke, Italy."

The crying stilled. "What?"

"Yesterday, America told me about the sausage crisis. After thirty seconds of research, I knew it was a prank. I can assure you that America is having fun at your expense."

At that moment, Italy burst from his seated position and made a grab for his phone.

For the next thirty minutes, all Germany could hear was the sound of Italian yells and swears.


	44. The Pen is Mightier Than the Sword

**43\. The Pen is Mightier than the Sword**

Date Written: _March 29, 2019_

Date Posted_: February 22, 2020_

Characters: _America, Canada, Japan, Romano_

Summary: _America and the gang are a bookstore. Tensions simmer gently under the surface when Romano and Japan get into an argument over Veneziano's preference concerning pens._

Notes:

* * *

America was all for visiting stores and malls after a stressful day of stifling boredom and listening to a lot of annoying presentations about… stuff, but this—_this!_—was just too much.

He had been hanging out with Japan and Canada when they had come across Italy, but without his younger brother. Apparently, poor Veneziano had come down with a fever that could only be solved by staying in one's own territory until the sickness passed—freaking Nation status lore that America didn't really care about. It was nothing too bad, Romano had said, but Veneziano was too ill to take the flight. After he had ended his account, Romanoa scowled and muttered something that sounded like '_stronzo_'!

Italy had the idea to enter some sort of book store that also sold an assortment of art supplies and stationary. He had been complaining that his little jerk of a brother would be pissed if he didn't bring back a souvenir. Like always, Japan and Canada had decided to lend their services (such was the way of the well mannered folk) while America had come just to observe. That, and he happened to see a new edition for the _Art of War_ on the shelves. Like, who would pass up the opportunity?

So, after a brief bit of browsing, America had tucked the _Art of War_ under one arm and some new manga series that had recently come out. He had come across his friends who were arguing, of all things, about pens. To be fair, Canada was the mediator. Italy and Japan were arguing about the pens.

"I believe that Veneziano would favor pens with thin, fine points and bold colors. Rollerball pens don't deliver the same professional tone as regular ballpens."

Romano clenched his jaw. "Listen, Japan, I'm here to bring my brother pens for his personal enjoyment. If he wants something professional that is worth more than the sole of my shoe, then he can go to the supply store where they sell the exact same thing for a fraction of the price."

Japan, undaunted, continued to point to a display where all the aforementioned ballpens stood at attention. "I beg your pardon, but—"

"Get on your knees, suck my—"

Having a feeling that what Romano was going to say was going to be too graphic for his sensitive ears, America turned to his brother and in his quietest whisper, asked, "Are they okay? Are they speaking in code?"

Canada shrugged. "They've been going at it like rutting moose for the past ten minutes."

America blinked. And then he stared. And he blinked some more.

That was imagery that he would rather not have in his head. Really? Going at it like moose? He had the misfortune of going on a hunting trip a few decades back when the North American brothers happened to catch a couple of moose during mating season. It was not pretty.

Such a sight must have caused America's face to look horrified or something to that effect because Canada politely put a stop to his brother's growing pitfall into existentialism and phallic imagery by elbowing him in the stomach.

Upon impact, the older American coughed, but braved through the pain.

"Have you tried peacekeeping?"

"Have you tried calling North Korea to put his toys away?"

"Touche."

"And I thought that you didn't know French."

"I don't. I just know American, Canadian, and Mexican."

As Canada tried his utmost to stifle his laughter (much to America's pride, a chuckle still escaped), the American turned back to face the other two members of their party. Italy had taken to waving a ballpen in front of Japan's face in what appeared to be a bout of psychological warfare while Japan stared lifelessly at the Italian. If the Nations weren't careful, their argument could escalate to a full out brawl. And…

Was it just him, or was Japan eyeing a broom that just so happened to be positioned quite close to his sword wielding hand?

"—but you wouldn't know that, would you? He likes using—"

"—I've visited him many times over the past few decades, but I fear that I never heard—"

The more they argued, the more America wanted to get straight into the line for the cashier. He liked attention and the noise of conversation, but this was getting too out of hand. Already, there was a group of civilians who were surreptitiously muttering amongst themselves. Finally, when America caught wind of one person subtly exiting to fetch an employee, he had enough.

"What's up my dudes!" Air horns were quieter than his powerful, obnoxiously annoying voice. Immediately, both the Japanese and Italian men tensed and glared at him. Meanwhile, the bystanders looked on in shock. Well, you gotta do what you gotta do. Besides, all the attention was on him and that's where America thrived the most."Why you gotta be so bent out of shape? They're just a bunch of pens!"

Romano exploded. "Right? It's not the quality of the pen that matters, it's what you do with it!"

"Yes, I do agree," Japan started. "However, appearances are everything nowadays. How would you feel if you happened to see a signature penned in garish and unacceptable colors?"

"I'd be fucking happy that my paperwork was signed."

"Dude, same."

Japan turned to the silent observer of the group, a silent plea in the dark pools of his eyes.

And, like the pushover Canada was, he said, "Why not get both sets? Veneziano likes to doodle, but can work when pushed. Give him a variety and he might be more motivated."

All three stared at the Canadian, who, after his admission looked exceedingly pale under the store's artificial lighting.

"You little shit," Romano seethed, "do you think I'm made out of money?"

"You don't have to listen to my suggestions!" Canada waved his arms in what was supposed to be a placating manner. "Just… pick a pen so that we can eat!"

Japan added his own piece. "Why are all Americans obsessed with food?"

"I'm Canada!"

And just when the international relations among them threatened to take a turn for the worse, something happened.

America had an idea.

"Why not just message him, 'Mano? He's sick, but not dying, right?"

"Because!" With a scowl and a rapidly reddening complexion, Romano hid himself away under the comfort of a social media app. It only took a few heavy taps, a few muttered curses, and a snort before he tucked his phone back into his pocket (with another colorful curse). "_Dio_, how could I forget?"

"Well?" Japan prodded. "Does Veneziano prefer ballpens or rollerballs?"

Romano brushed past all three of them and straight out of the display for the pens.

"Paints. My stupid, lazy asshole of a brother wants paints."


	45. House of Cards

**44\. House of Cards**

Date Written: _March 29, 2019_

Date Posted: _February 29, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Monaco_

Summary: _Veneziano tries to make a house out of cards. Monaco wants to play a game._

Notes:

* * *

"_Monsieur_ Italy!" A lovely voice rang out. "That's not how you play!"

Italy, who had been idly playing with a deck of cards, looked up sheepishly at the beautiful young woman. Like the rest of the Romantic Nations, Monaco was blessed with an outward beauty that hid her true strength. Unlike the rest of her Latin siblings, she was… not as easy going. After all, she had to work her way out to become just a little bit independent from her closest neighbor, France. Despite that, today, she was wearing casual clothing and a smile that just barely hid a shark's grinning maw.

"_Ciao, bella_! Don't you always play with Seborga?"

She nodded her head before gradually sitting down across from him. Although she was young, there was a glint in her eyes that showed how mature she really was. With a shark-like grin, she placed her chin in the waiting hold of her palm as she looked him over.

"He's being annoying again and you look a little lonely." She cast a glance at the deck of cards he was mindlessly shuffling in his hands. "How about one game?"

"And lose all of my money?" He shook his head as he began to divide the cards into stacks. "Romano pickpocketed me a few hours ago so I have nothing of value."

Monaco cocked her head to the side. "How about a game with no stakes?"

"But playing with rules is so restrictive!" Like a small child, he threw his cards onto the table and took a pair of cards. A jack and an ace. Not a bad hand. Although they were new, some of the edges had been worn down and a few cards had a few creases on the corners. Monaco observed as he took the pair and set them against each other to form a small pyramid. "Why not make a house of cards?"

Monaco's eye twitched.

"Playing a game would be so much more fun. Just one small shift in balance—" She tapped a well manicured finger on the table. Not surprisingly, the poor structure and material of the pyramid fell with a slight whoosh. "—See! Look, barely any pressure and it all goes to pieces!"

The Italian chuckled at her disdainful expression.

"Perhaps… we could use this opportunity to help build one that is bigger and stronger."

"Ha! You actually have the patience or the concentration for that?"

He regarded her like how a father would regard a petulant child before once again offering a handful of cards that were fanned out.

"You forget… I've spent centuries crafting art from the barest of materials: paint, stone, charcoal, and other media. A deck of cards fashioned into a pyramid? It will only be a fraction of the effort that I would casually spend on any of my personal projects."

Monaco bit back a retort.

Knowing that he had the final say in the matter, The auburn haired young man smiled a bright smile before handing her half a pile of the scattered cards.

"I was thinking of making a large pyramid with tons of room and layers and—Oh! We should open more decks so we can use more cards and—!"


	46. Delicate Delicacies

**45\. Delicate Delicacies**

Date Written: _March 30, 2019_

Date Posted_: March 7, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Belarus_

Summary: _Belarus plays medic while at a party._

Notes:

* * *

The short and long of the matter was simple: they were under attack. Okay, maybe they weren't specifically targeted, but when you were a Nation in a foreign land and something very close to a terrorist attack occurred, well… you were definitely on edge.

It was supposed to be an evening where Nations all over the world would be rubbing elbows and drinking overpriced liquor while talking shop about politics. Belarus had expected a few arguments to break out just because of past grudges and histories. Honestly, for some, it was purely for tradition that spats and squabbles were bound to happen. When the night had darkened and the moon had risen to its highest point in the sky, the night went from slightly entertaining to downright monstrous.

First, the lights had shut off. For most of the Nations attending, they had thought that it was a harmless prank or some sort of technical difficulty. Quiet murmurs had given way to uneasy laughter before there were gunshots that struck the air.

Most, if not all, Nations were more than adept with the art of war. Immediately, some burst to action trying to pinpoint where the shots had come from. Others checked if anyone was injured. Belarus had been on the outskirts of the crowded room, but had received no injury at the time.

Others, not so much.

When she traversed the crowd looking for her closest family members, she found someone collapsed on the floor. She hurried over, already in medical mode when upon further notice, she realized that it was the representative from North Italy. Hmm, she wasn't all too impressed with the state that he was in, but refrained from making a comment.

Quickly, she assessed that his body, while wounded, wasn't in too much of a state of disrepair. His economy, while it could clearly do better, did nothing to slow the rate of healing. In fact, as she watched, she could see that the blood seeping through the fabric was already slowing to a trickle. Still, it wouldn't do to leave him.

"Just a graze on my left side," he supplied helpfully.

"Shut up and don't move." She had already made that assessment upon first examination, but it was a nice affirmation. With the help of some cutlery and pure determination, she ripped out some parts of the outer layer of her evening gown. With practiced strokes, she immediately made a makeshift bandage to go around his midriff.

Italy chuckled at her ministrations. "I'm already healing, you don't need to—"

"Do you not have ears," she barked. "Don't talk. Has it occurred to you that pretty soon, human authorities will come swarming in? Don't you think it would be weird if the wounded just happened to look okay?"

He shrugged in response.

"I said, 'don't move'."

"I thought that you said don't talk."

She nearly stabbed him in the same area where the gunshot grazed him.

"Don't do both and maybe I'll let you live when we get this mess sorted out."

Italy was about to say that stabbing would be against the entire point, but he kept quiet.

Belarus huffed when she noticed that the small grin of appreciation did not falter under her unyielding gaze.


	47. Matchstick Matchmaker

**46\. Matchstick Matchmaker**

Date Written: _March 30, 2019_

Date Posted_: March 14, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, Seborga_

Summary: _As per usual, the Italian brothers bicker. The only difference is that Seborga knows more than both his siblings combined. _

Notes:

* * *

Two young men, both in their early twenties, watched in mystified silence as they watched another young man try to woo a woman. The young men had seated themselves at a nearby cafe table and had been ardently discussing some details about their meeting held only hours prior before they noticed that an argument ensuing only a few tables away. Intrigued, both Italians caught wind of this development and began to take note of the Shakespearean tragedy that was enfolding before them.

As they watched, Romano couldn't help but let out his frustrations via complaining.

"It hurts just watching," Romano moaned. He reclined low in his seat and laid his head against the surface of the table. To Romano's immediate left, Veneziano whined at the scene and tried to placate his brother's groan of disgust.

Romano wasn't having any of it. "No, don't argue, this is getting pathetic."

Undeterred by his brother's dismissive attitude, Veneziano pointed to the young man trying too hard to woo that unimpressed woman. "You have to admire his tenacity, though." He wrapped a lock of his brother's hair around one finger before he noticed a development in the couple's bickering.

He poked his brother in the head. "Look, he's even getting down on his knees and everything."

"Veneziano, I love you, but that's just grovelling. I do believe that is being called pathetic."

The younger Italian shrugged before shooting his brother a glare that did nothing to change Romano's mind. "I see no shame in admitting that you're desperate. Honesty and earnestness is very important."

A sigh.

Romano didn't want to, but Veneziano words struck a chord within him. Hesitating only a little bit, Romano's head rose above the wooden grain of the table and he saw—

"Oh, no! Just...what is he?" Romano, in an effort to save himself the secondhand embarrassment, squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at his temples with the ferocity of an Italian grandmother kneading bread. Perhaps if he rubbed at his pressure points hard enough, he could theoretically forget everything that just happened.

Unsurprisingly, it didn't work.

"That boy… is not one of mine." He shoved his younger brother in the direction of that disappointment. "I wash my hands clean of such romantic ineptitude."

Shocked, Veneziano shoved his brother harder than intended, causing the Southern Italian to wobble slightly from his seat.

"In all honesty… I think he's doing… okay." A look of contemplation mixed with mischievous malice crossed his features as he took in his brother who looked like he was on the cusp of an aneurysm. "When's the last time you've taken a bella home, hmmm?"

Romano turned his face away so that his brother couldn't catch wind of the blush that blossomed over his cheeks.

"I'm a gentleman." He managed to sputter. "I don't go around bringing home girls for fun."

"Because being a gentleman would stop you in the first place." Veneziano rolled his eyes as Romano attempted to swipe at his brother's jaw, public decency be damned. "You're just saying that because it's probably been a while since you've managed to succeed in flirting with a woman."

"Oh, really? And what about you, dear brother of mine? Have you been taking—"

All of a sudden, another young man practically barreled into the spare seat that was at their small cafe table. Like the other two Italians, this young man had similar coloring and builds—an obvious hint that he was another brother.

"Sorry I'm late," Seborga gasped, out of breath, as he joined them at their cafe table. For a few seconds, he fanned himself with a spare handkerchief that he had before continuing with an abbreviated explanation of his sudden appearance. "It's been hell trying to get here. What did I miss?"

In tandem, both brothers pointed at each other and spoke of the other's respective faults.

"Romano's a prick."

"Veneziano's a whore."

Seborga blinked. "I don't suppose you want my opinion on that."

Romano shook his head. "Not unless you happen to agree with me."

"And what brought this on? You're not comparing flirting tips, are you? You two are too old fashioned."

As Romano began raging over Seborga's poor use of tact, Veneziano remedied the confusion. Apparently, the Venetian recounted that they had been keeping tabs on a couple, who by the looks of things had been arguing nonstop for the past half hour or so.

Seborga began to think for a second, a thought crossing his mind.

Hmm, on his way to the cafe, he had taken note of them… but… oh!

"—and then Romano disowned him. Which is funny considering Romano's flirting prowess is on par with that guy's."

"Hey!"

It was at that point, Seborga knew that he was obligated to tell his brothers of some pertinent information that was sure to change their perspective concerning the couple arguing. If anything, it would get the both of them to focus on something other than the state of their poor flirting skills (because Seborga was better at it than both of them, ha!) and Seborga would get a free meal out of it. Maybe.

Regardless, he was going to tell them anyway.

"Actually, dear brothers of mine, they aren't a couple."

"Of course not, they're clearly breaking up."

"No, I'm serious." As both brothers leveled him a look of pure disbelief, Seborga fought the small smile that threatened to erupt on his face. He waited for a second just for the dramatic timing and when it seemed that Romano was itching for another fight, he cleared his throat and gestured towards the other table. "If you haven't noticed, they're siblings and they're arguing if you two are just friends or merely in love with each other."

Veneziano choked while Romano did a spit take.

Seborga just smiled.


	48. Chocolate Enterprise

**47\. Chocolate Enterprise**

Date Written: _March 31, 2019_

Date Posted_: March 21, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, France, Belgium, America_

Summary: _Italian cuisine was one of the best in the world! How come no one else could see that?_

Notes:

* * *

If there was one thing Veneziano would ever fight to the death for, it was food. As a young Nation, his taste buds had set their sights on the finer points of cuisine. Herbs and spices were a commodity back in the day, and as the Venetian Empire, he had lorded it all over Nations. Because of all the goods that he had to offer, other Nations had no choice but to dig deep into their coffers and pay up. At one point, he had been practically drowning in his own wealth.

And from such an influx of new ingredients, his culture revitalized and gave birth to such scrumptious meals and tasty treats. Nowadays, Italian culture was not whole unless you made a mention of their food. It was only proper. After all, Italian cuisine was among the best in the world. If not, _**the**_ best.

"My dear, I don't believe you're quite right about that. It was proven time and time again that French cuisine is just as good, if not better than yours." The representative of France had a way with flowery words, but that did little to soothe the barbs that were embedded in his voice. "I do believe mine outshines yours."

Before Veneziano could even attempt to defend his food's honor, not that it needed the defense, another Nation came into view. Like the other two, she was a European by origin and birth. She kept her flaxen locks that she inherited from Mother Gaul short while her dark green eyes glittered with mischief. For reasons unknown, she held a small parcel in tastefully hued paper in the crook of her arm.

"Well, hello there!" She called out with ready enthusiasm. "I was happy to find Romano, but instead, I see you two bickering."

At that segue, Veneziano beckoned for her input as he said, "Bella, do inform us: whose cuisine is better, Italian or the French?"

Belgium balked. She fingered the parcel that was held in her hands before shooting a suspicious look at both of her European coworkers. "Why must I choose between a close neighbor and a dear friend?"

France saw his opportunity and took it. "You don't think of me as a dear friend? I'm hurt!"

"Ah!" Belgium's eyes comically bulged out as a small gasp left her pursed lips. "That's not what I meant at all, France. Perhaps I should have been more tactful." A hearty blush dusted her cheeks, but the glimmer of mischief still decorated her eyes. "How honest should I be if I were to pass judgment?"

"Best to break out hearts, or rather, Veneziano's soon. Non?"

As Veneziano shot the older blond a venomous look that promised retribution should he get the Frenchman alone, the Belgian woman spoke. "Well, since you did ask nicely… I do believe that Belgian cuisine is perhaps the most palatable."

Veneziano couldn't help but send the Belgian woman a look that was equally as venomous as the one he sent the Frenchman.

"Belgium, perhaps you should get your hearing checked along with your tact," the Italian couldn't help but seethe. It was rare to see him so worked over such trivial matters, but he was Italy. And what was Italy most known for? Food! Food was the lifeblood, the conversation, the heart of every true child of his Nation. To dismiss Italian cuisine as something second rate was like spitting in the face of good taste. And his face. You just spat in his face, you monster. "Or, perhaps you're unfit to pass a proper verdict?"

If either of the two Nations were stunned at the Italian's overly emotional outburst, they didn't show it. Similar arguments concerning different aspects of one's culture had occurred in the past. While the Italian usually avoided confrontation, there were triggers that one never let go of. For the Romance Nations, they were very particular about their cultures.

Belgain's eyes narrowed. "Maybe you two should ask someone who has tasted both of your cuisines… and possible even more in order to form a more educated opinion."

France huffed. "And who has the stomach or the patient to eat many different foods to—"

"My dudes! Did someone say food?" A bouncing American bounded into the Europeans' space, a wide grin splitting his face in two. Normally, he would have entered the meeting a little later (but still earlier than most), but today was a day worthy of firsts. "Yo, my good woman, Belgium, that a gift for me?" He waggled his eyebrows in the box's direction before the blonde playfully swatted his arm.

"Ciao, America!" Veneziano greeted happily. "You've had experience with other Nation's foods, right? Whose is better, mine or France's?"

At that moment, America puffed up his chest in what appeared to be misplaced pride. Although he could be quite useful and hilarious at times, Veneziano found himself bristling with anticipation. The overbearing loudmouth of an American opened his mouth and said—

"Belgium!"

"Pardon," France asked sweetly as possible—a fact that was completely at odds with the menacing look on his face. "Italy happened to talk about French and Italian cuisine, not Belgian food."

"My good Frenchman, Belgium has the best chocolate in the world!" American pointed to the snickering woman, who raised her parcel (a box of chocolates) and shook it to emphasize her point. "Not to mention that she also makes the best waffles! What do you guys have? Snails? Tomatoes?"

"Crepes."

"Great! Then French cuisine."

Veneziano's mouth spoke faster than his mind could comprehend. "W-what about cannoli? Tiramisu? How could you choose them over me?"

America shrugged. "Can-a-what now?"

Veneziano turned away from the conversation, his shoulders slumped over in a classic pout.

It was a sad day when the world brainwashed themselves into thinking that Italian food was not worthy of praise.


	49. Just for the Day

**48\. Just for the Day**

Date Written: _April 1, 2019_

Date Posted_: March 28, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, Spain_

Summary: _Romano and Veneziano trade places for the day. While Romano gets to work closely with the government, Veneziano stays at home and tends to the garden._

Notes:

* * *

Veneziano must have been infected by America's poor taste in movie synopses; however, American movies were somewhat more palatable than _this_.

_This_ was somehow worse.

"You can't expect me to do this. I am not doing any of this." Romano rudely gestured to what appeared to be a hastily scrawled list of chores inscribed onto off white paper. Over the centuries, both brothers had been educated by the best scholars of their shared nation, which resulted in handwriting many envied and aspired. However, the hasty scrawl showed no sign of rigorous, meticulous practice. Instead, Veneziano's handwriting looped and swirled in an incomprehensible manner that reminded Romano of Russian Cyrillic. Cursive Russian Cyrillic, to be frank.

"But," Veneziano sang out, "you promised to keep an open mind!" He clapped his hands together. "And—" He continued with the aplomb of a very young child, "—you lost the best and my word is law, so you have no choice." The completely innocent look on Veneziano's face did little to dispel the apprehension that raised the hairs on the back of Romano's neck.

"You literally can't expect me to feel better by…" Romano let out a deep groan of disgust as he slumped over their shared dining room table. "...whatever thing you're getting so hung up about."

"It's just for the day! Switching places, doing each others' work!" The younger brother whined childishly. "Come on, it'll be fun!"

Romano could honestly say that his blood pressure skyrocketed by how easygoing his brother was in regards to the absurd appeal.

"You're going to regret it," Romano warned. With his luck, he would run their government to the ground and possibly ruin whatever international relations they had.

Veneziano waved away his concerns. "Ve~! I believe that everything will be all right."

.

.

.

Everything was not all right.

Veneziano had spent the better part of his morning trying to reorganize the house, take care of the garden, and to figure out what to make for dinner, but—! It was just too tedious and nerve wracking to even think of touching Romano's Room of Hopes and Dreams. Now, Veneziano was the last person on earth to even think about being scared of his older brother Romano. They had been through a lot together, as most Nations could attest, and their shared history allowed for the both of them to get to know each other within the realm of politics to the fields of war, which virtually erased any hints of fear that Veneziano may have felt before their eventual union.

No, what was really nerve wracking was figuring out how to explain to his brother that more than half his belongings deserved to be donated to museums without making him cry. Most of the objects were old, and while obviously handled with care and love in the past, were practically allowing dust to gather all over the once pristine surfaces. Not to mention the fact that all of the miscellaneous mish-mash of culture and history was cluttering Romano's room. Where would all of Romano's hopes and dreams be if there was no more room? There was simply no other solution than to—

"Achoo!" Veneziano sneezed. And then he sneezed again. And again.

The young man's eyes watered from the forceful sneezing. At that moment, he considered asking Germany for help, but… A cascade of dust began to fall from the heavens (how did that happen?) and the Italian resolved to talk to his brother about this later. There was absolutely no way that he could even hope to make a dent in what appeared to be a gigantic, looming monolith of the hoarding situation that was Romano's room.

Well, he could try to garden…

The garden behind their house in the countryside was well maintained and prosperous. Although Veneziano had a hand in some aspects of the maintenance (allocating money in the budget for supplies and whatnot), he rarely dirtied his hands with manual labor. Although… Centuries before he had become a trader of spices and gold, he had been a series of lagoons who had been a lowly fisherman. From the beginning, he had never been a man of the land—not at all like his brother.

As a Nation, he wasn't at all inclined to be a laborer, his people might have had a little experience, but… Veneziano shook those negative thoughts as he turned to the internet to help him with his new task. After retrieving various sources of information and glancing at paragraphs upon paragraphs on the subject of gardening, Veneziano thought he would have been ready at that state.

He pulled on a pair of gardening gloves, walked to the flower bed, and—

"_Hola, mi amigo! Que tal_?"

Veneziano looked up from his crouched position and gave a jaunty wave. "_Estoy bien, Espa__ñ__a_!" He returned to him in his natal tongue, with Spain following suit. "I'm gardening today!" He held out a weed that he found and proudly displayed it to his fellow Romantic Nation.

Spain, their lovely neighbor to the west whistled a low, melancholic tune before he crossed the boundary and into the garden. Years of conquering smaller Nations and other various activities now considered illegal and unethical had him gracefully approaching the Italian.

"_Amigo_," the Spaniard began in an uncharacteristically hesitant manner, "I don't think you should be trusted with this."

The Italian frowned.

Veneziano knew that Spain meant well, really, he did, but it was just so hard to keep a polite composure. There was also just a twinge of guilt that twisted his insides and had his olive toned complexion flushing a bit in anger. Just why was Spain here anyways?

Veneziano said as much and Spain replied, "Well, _Romanito_ kind of said something about your place and he was… very particular that I make sure the garden…" Spain's voice trailed off. There really was no need for any further discussion. When you have lived for so long and you've known your neighbor for almost the same exact amount of time, you just seem to get things. Veneziano may not have been close to Spain, but his brother was.

Flat tones did not suit the Italian's normally cadenced pitch. "He doesn't trust me."

Awkwardly, Spain brushed the back of his head while he tried his utmost not to be too intimidated by his neighbor's deadpan stare. "I didn't say it like that! And Romano definitely did not say that either!"

Veneziano sighed, at a loss for what to do. On one hand, he wanted to kick Spain out and then call his brother. He briefly wondered if he would end up yelling obscenities or just plain crying. Neither of those options were appealing. Or, he could approach this like a mature adult and then sulk like a child behind closed doors.

Oh, what to choose.

He gestured to the expanse of the garden and nodded at the Spaniard.

"Teach me?" His cheeks began to color like ripened tomatoes as he faced the garden in dismay. "Just… just for the day?"


	50. A Fistful of Notecards, An Eyeful of Tea

**49\. A Fistful of Notecards, An Eyeful of Tears**

Date Written: _April 3, 2019_

Date Posted_: April 5, 2020_

Characters: _Ukraine, Veneziano_

Summary: _As more and more things go wrong in the middle of her presentation, Ukraine focuses on a certain European Nation to be her main source of comfort._

Notes: _Woooot! I made it to 50 chapters! I made my goal! For those of you still reading, would you like another 50 to make this a collection of 100 one-shots, or do you want me to end it now? Please let me know before I post again next week. If I receive no word, I'll just post my FINAL chapter that will tie up this series and send my muse, Veneziano, away for a well deserved vacation. Regardless, this was a wild ride and I had so much interacting with you guys and with our favorite Romance Nation. To next week! :D_

* * *

Ukraine looked upon her fellow Nations, nervousness clogging her throat and disorienting her vision.

The first thing you should know about the Slavic Nation was that she did not like large crowds, overly chatty colleagues, or the judging stares coming from dozens upon dozens of eyes. Instead of seeking the spotlight on the international stage, she liked tending to her agricultural pursuits or looking after her siblings. It was rare for her to act on her own interests without the aid of her boss, which was a stark contrast when she was compared to her siblings. Whereas Belarus relied on blunt statements and sarcasm, Russia with his sly words and towering might, Ukraine was certainly the one who was the most down to earth, and the most secluded of the three.

It was rare for Nations to be… unwilling to speak for themselves or to be too frightened to bring attention to themselves. For those who were verbally challenged, but more than physically endowed with the prowess for war, they waged battles that scarred the earth and had their resounding losses or successes speak for themselves. Others, still, spoke through their magnificent cultures and longstanding histories.

And what did Ukraine have?

Farmland, a handful of index cards written in her loopy hand, and a faulty projector.

Truthfully, it was no one's fault that the projector had suddenly stopped working after Uzbekistan's scheduled time slot. It was no one's fault that Ukraine's scheduled presentation was the last one before their break for lunch. It was no one's fault that Ukraine's voice, while loud if she so chose, had a tendency to fade in and out. It was no one's fault that she, a Nation born from the remains of a people who were hardy and lived through many harsh winters, was so close to breaking down in crying in the middle of what was supposed to be her big speech.

Unlike what most people would think, Nations are human, but not human at all. At least, not entirely.

Nations are made of stronger stuff than the average human. If she was under duress or attack, she would still cry, yes, but… Her tears would fall upon an angered face, they would hinder her eyesight, blind her to horrors of warfare. Tears were such a small thing, but it was an expression of the fragile psyche within. Ukraine had her tears; Russia, his eerie smiles; Belarus, her piercing stare.

Tears were her way of becoming human.

Unfortunately…

Unfortunately, the rest of the world didn't see tears the same way. Tears were a sign of weakness, of emotion bursting from the seams of a mortal coil. What was the term that England couldn't help but use ever so often? Stiff upper lip? For some odd reason, tears were seen as unseemly things. Things meant to be harshly rubbed away with lace handkerchiefs and not be discussed.

Ukraine is a Nation. She should be better than this.

A malfunctioning projector was the least of any Nation's problems, but as she fiddled with the buttons on the remote and Sweden checked the connection of her laptop to whatever was needed to be connected, Ukraine felt like she was going to cry. Not a full blown weeping meltdown—although, it could simply escalate to that height if warranted—but a few trickles of unwanted moisture, if you will.

She never did like the idea of confrontation.

And when someone had suggested that Ukraine just present without the aid of a projector—a pragmatic turn of events due to someone's intervention—the blonde woman found herself being drowned out by the multitude of noise. Noise! Everywhere she looked, there was someone shifting in their seat, a rustle of papers, the telltale click of a closing briefcase. Ukraine was down to five minutes in her allotted fifteen, but everyone was chomping at the bit, all too eager to head to lunch.

It should have been quick. It should have been easy.

There was no need to fiddle with the remote to change slides or having the embarrassing urge to read directly off the visual aid. Ukraine could handle her notecards and the wide sea of dozens of Nations who wanted nothing more than to-to—

Another side effect of having the urge to cry.

Stuttering.

Which brought about nervousness.

Which caused even more stuttering.

Add that just hastened the onslaught of tears—tears that had no business in an international meeting.

Sometimes, Ukraine wished that there was some way she could turn invisible or something.

When she was scarcely through a third of her speech, more than half of the Nations present were no longer paying attention. Those who did, however, looked like they were only a few stutters away from joining the rest of the crowd. With little resolve to her name, Ukraine tried to stop the swelling of tears from obstructing her vision as she continued to refer to her note cards.

For one fleeting second, she raised her tearful gaze just once so she could gauge the room, took note of a young man's earnest gaze, dropped her eyes, and—

Wait.

Her voice slowed and eventually stopped as she looked up from her notes to catch the gaze of the young man once more. It didn't take long for her to realize that the representation of North Italy was the one who seemed to be one of the few to keep listening. It was strange. Out of all the other Nations present, she would have expected that Italy would have been the first to ache for food and lose interest in her presentation. Yet…

She knew that she was probably attracting too much attention for halting in the middle of her talk (a fact that she was acutely aware of), but… As Ukraine kept her eyes locked on the Italian's figure, he gave a broad smile that lightened his eyes, which formed cute little dimples on his cheeks. For some odd reason, it soothed the trembles in her heart. He gave her a thumbs up and mimed speaking, a reminder that she stood tall behind the podium.

Her voice, while not particularly strong in the first place, had managed to maintain a steady rhythm. Her eyes, previously tearful, had managed to blink back the worst of the flood. In the end, while her presentation may not have been the most engaging, she certainly did have a stronger ending. As the polite applause sounded, their host for the meeting declared that their lunch break would finally commence. Relieved and honestly disappointed that such a traumatizing ordeal did not warrant something more to cement such an undertaking, Ukraine made up her mind.

It was a spur of the moment thing. She was a European, yes, but that didn't mean that she interacted with Italy all too often. Despite that knowledge, that didn't stop her from practically falling down the stage steps and towards Italy's spot on the European side of the meeting hall. Unsurprisingly, Ukraine found the sunny Nation being berated by Germany for doodling all over his paperwork.

"Ah, but Germany, I was taking notes and drawing!" The auburn haired young man peered up innocently at his close neighbor and friend. "Shouldn't you be congratulating me for multitasking?"

"For the last time, Italy, I—" For a moment, the blond Nation looked like he was about to cuff Italy on the ear, but found himself pushed back into a corner by the rules of courtesy and etiquette. At the sight of Ukraine approaching, Germany cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Miss Ukraine, did you have-"

"Miss Ukraine!" Italy pushed Germany as far away as possible, effectively shooing Germany to do business elsewhere. "Your presentation was really interesting, but needs a little work on engaging the audience." His eyes, like his hands, held her fixed in place.

"Ah… thank you for the advice… and thank you for your help today." Her eyes were welling again—this time, from tears of gratefulness.

Italy laughed softly before placing a linen handkerchief in her hand. "What are you talking about? I was doing what everyone is supposed to do. Besides, no one should have to cry, not someone as beautiful as you."

And for the first time that day, Ukraine felt all her stress and fears lift away.


	51. Correlation Does Not Imply Causation

**50\. Correlation Does Not Imply Causation**

Date Written: _April 5, 2019_

Date Posted_: April 12, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano_

Summary: _Veneziano confronts Romano about his relations concerning another Nation. _

Notes: _After all the votes, I have come to the conclusion that I will extend this series for another fifty chapters. It was a unanimous vote and I would like to thank all of you for responding! Without you, this series would not have come this far. Here's to another year of Veneziano and Hetalia! :D_

* * *

Veneziano had his fair share of smarts and creativity from years as the forefront of commerce and the King of the Renaissance. He had birthed a number of scholars and artists, thinkers, and doers. Changers of the world, masters of their own fate. It was a little known fact nowadays, at least to his peers, but he was quite advanced in the mathematical arts, philosophy, and other branches of knowledge.

It was just that Veneziano just happened to use his intelligence for… less than intelligent things.

For example, he really shouldn't be taking note of his brother's relationships, but, well…

It was just an inkling of an idea, a problem to consider. It just seemed that whenever Romano spent more time with a certain person or people, he became more—

"You bastard! Are you so far up north that you can't listen to your brother anymore?"

Veneziano looked up from his scattered notes to catch his brother staring at him. In response, Veneziano dropped the pen that he had been chewing in the middle of absent-minded thought before granting his brother a small smile. Almost immediately, Romano straightened his back and the fine hairs on his neck began to stand on end. There were times when Veneziano looked self-aware and there were times when he looked like God personally spoke to him.

Romano didn't want to find out—many enemies were put out of their misery because of Veneziano's epiphanies.

"You know what? Forget it." Romano began to stalk out of the room, but not before he heard his brother clear his throat.

Now, the Southern Italian had two options.

One, he could stay and listen to his inconsiderate bastard of a brother.

Two, he could leave and enjoy the rest of his afternoon with a bottle of wine.

After a moment's hesitation, Romano whirled on his heel and dropped into the seat in front of his younger brother. His eyes, dark and filled with mounting anger, bore into his brother's own.

"So, are you ready to listen to your elder now?"

Veneziano hummed, a lazy smile dancing on the edges of his lips. "Perhaps."

Romano did not like that look. Not at all. He had witnessed that same look on his brother's face whenever they had sparred together and it always—_always_—ended up with Romano kissing the ground or facing the tip of a fencing sword only centimeters away from his throat.

Still, Romano needed to get some information from his brother concerning matters that were strictly from the northern part of their shared territory. As he began to pull up some documents that he saved onto one of the apps on his phone, he didn't realize that Veneziano was looking at him with something akin to sly interest in his face.

Finally, when Romano managed to get to the right document, he tapped on the icon and began to scan through the contents. Ah, here it was. It had something to do with brokering trade with a few countries that they had previously not been too acquainted with. It was something that Romano himself didn't have enough experience to handle on his own, so he figured that he would get his brother's advice before sending some kind of proposal to their boss for further inspection.

"Anyway, some countries in Southeast Asia—"

"Ah, international business?"

For some odd reason, Romano believed that Veneziano seemed a little too interested in this matter. With a raised brow, he glanced at his younger brother; Veneziano's face was cradled gently within his hands. There was that stupid grin on Veneziano's face that either spoke of unimaginable terror on Romano's part or something so utterly stupid and ridiculous, Romano would have no choice but to disown his younger brother.

The North didn't need Veneziano when Seborga could easily take his place.

"Yes." The Southern brother replied slowly. "Obviously. What, did you have some countries in mind that you wanted to discuss?"

At that, Romano knew that he had stepped into the trap that was invitingly laid out for him from none other than his brother himself. This was the point of no return and Romano was teetering at the edge of a cliff with a drop that would land him into an inescapable abyss. It was a blank, all consuming void that would lead to nothing more than pain and regret. As adrenaline began to pump through his body and his heart began to race, Veneziano spoke again.

"Actually," the younger Nation leaned ever so slightly in his chair—an action that had Romano swallow thickly in discomfort. Was he going to rag on him or something? "Actually, dear brother mine, I would like to discuss something that has been on my mind for quite some now."

"Define: 'quite for some time'."

Veneziano's smile began to grow even larger.

"A few decades or so. It's just been niggling at the back of my mind like a puppy nipping at my heels."

The imagery, as cute as it was, did little to deter Romano's suspicion. Regardless, Veneziano did little to offend him—aside from that stupid, smug smirk of his—so he was going to listen to him. For now.

"Okay? And?"

Veneziano's smile seemed to grow even wider.

"I'm not sure if you noticed this, but you happen to smile a lot. On the phone. When—"

"Veneziano, if you're going to say what you're going to say, you better not say it."

The younger Italian, knowing all too well the hell that was sure to greet him after he was finished saying his sentence went ahead and said it anyway.

"Have you ever considered that maybe, just maybe, you know…"

"The more you pussyfoot around the issue, the harder I'm going to beat your ass later on for wasting my time."

Veneziano may or may not have pouted, but pushed forth with his interrogation anyway.

"You ruin the fun out of everything… But are you interested in Spain?"

"Politically or—?"

Romano may have been hedging at this point, but he was honestly terrified at what his stupid little brother was getting at.

The Venetian simply smirked at his brother in a way that hinted at all the knowledge that he happened to have.

"No. Just… no. Whatever ideas you have, cast them away like the plague because—No."

"Why is it that whenever Spain gets into trouble you're always there for him? Or whenever you two talk onto the phone you seem so much happier? Or—"

Romano slammed a hand onto the tabletop, not really caring that his hand smarted. He looked down at his brother, anger brimming in his eyes and a shadow passing over his features. Even while he was seated, his gaze made it seem as if he was towering over him. As Veneziano's Adam's apple bobbed up and down in barely concealed fear, Romano spoke.

"We are friends. Nothing more, Veneziano. Now drop it."

Veneziano opened his mouth again as if to retort, but Romano beat him to the punch.

"No, you're not listening to me. Hell, when have you ever listened to me?" Romano glared at Veneziano until his younger brother slumped over his seat in defeat. Satisfied that Veneziano would shut up for once and whatever theories that he could have possibly had, Romano continued.

"Spain," Romano breathed out with the force of someone who was just so tired and done with everything, "is not interested in me and never will be." His figure trembled just the tiniest bit, but his voice carried with a strength that was often associated with war speeches and boosts of morale. "I don't know how you got this idea that Spain and I could possibly be… whatever you think we could be, but we aren't. Just. Drop. It."

For a moment, so stunned at the outburst, Veneziano could only fidget with the paperwork that he had dropped onto the table.

After a moment's contemplation, with his voice soft and wavering, "But what makes you so sure that he's not interested in you? Have you even tried?"

"Why don't you answer me this: what makes you think that someone would even like me? I'm not—I'm not—" Tears began to gather at the corners of Romano's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Not now. Not in front of his brother.

Arms, warm and slender against his steady frame, wrapped around his shoulders.

"Look, Romano… I just thought…"

"Here's the thing, Veneziano," Romano muttered. He pushed his brother away and stalked out of the room. "You don't think."


	52. Misplaced Misunderstanding

**51\. Misplaced Misunderstanding**

Date Written: _April 6, 2019_

Date Posted_: April 19, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, Prussia_

Summary: _Prussia manages to find himself possessing confidential information. _

Notes:

* * *

"Well, that was a waste of time." Romano huffed to himself as he began to stuff all the necessary notes and documents back into his briefcase. Next to him, his brother hummed in affirmation as he mirrored his brother's actions.

The both of them had endured another world summit that happened to take place in a country outside of their shared borders. While informative and necessary, Romano and Veneziano had enough of their fellow Nations and wanted to go back into their shared hotel room and take a nap.

All in all, it was just like any other meeting.

Absolutely nothing of note.

That is, nothing appeared to be of note until Prussia approached them, a small smile on his face as he greeted both Mediterranean Nations. Although he wasn't considered a true Nation anymore, merely a region within Germany's territory, he was still allowed to attend the conferences if he so wished. Most of the time, the albino opted to skip out on such trivial affairs lest he were to die of boredom and inanity. However, today was an exception. Today, Prussia was a stand-in for his brother due to some unfortunate mixup with his secretary.

The former country requested for some files and without taking much into consideration, the younger Italian representative grabbed a handful of documents, thumbed through them with a passing glance, and handed them in full to the Germanic Nation. The both of them exchanged words, mostly in jest concerning the meeting, before they parted ways.

At the hotel, Romano flopped on the bed while Veneziano hopped onto a chair before he started flipping through the apps on his phone. After most meetings, they found that the dullness and the tedium of such affairs were made much more bearable if they didn't talk or had a few strong drinks once they had finished. Most of the time, they would go out with their fellow Nations and take to bars or cafes across the street from the hotel or stroll around the city, taking in the sights. Because their wallets were several euros lighter than it was a few days ago, they had to make do with the dim lighting and the plush comforts of the room.

The brothers subsisted on the silence for a good half hour before Romano let out a groan and tiredly rose from the bed. The other brother paid little attention to his sibling while Romano began rifling through his briefcase.

"Romano—" Veneziano stated, but Romano headed him off with a gesture that shut him up.

For a moment, there was only the sound of paper rustling, humming, and muttered curses. When seconds of the ruckus spread out into minutes, the elder Nation dumped out the entirety of his briefcase onto the bed. There was only a slew of envelopes and precious paperwork that spilled out before Romano nearly collapsed onto the floor and slammed a fist into the plush carpeting.

Again, Veneziano looked up from his phone, this time admonishing his brother, but Romano leveled a glare that spoke of evil.

"Your bag." Romano held out a hand. "Now."

"Why do you want it?" Veneziano refused to move away from his perched position, his fingers pushing colorful buttons in accordance to the game that he was playing. "What are you so anxious about?"

Romano growled low in his throat before he stalked over to his brother's case lay before he undid the clasps and started peering at the contents. At that point, Veneziano was irritated, but the way his brother had not expressed his annoyance verbally, but through his actions, sent red flags. If that wasn't a sign of the apocalypse, then Veneziano didn't know what was. Eventually, Romano's heated attempts led him to empty Veneziano's briefcase onto the bed.

And his eyes kept looking for something.

At this point, Veneziano tucked his phone into his pocket and slowly approached his brother as if he were approaching some wild beast. With the way Romano huffed and erratically moved, it might as well have been the truth.

"Romano…" Veneziano stopped a few feet away, his eyes searching his brother's face, "did you lose something?"

"My common sense, self worth, and my will to live."

The younger brother shook his head. Even when they were full grown Nations, Romano was as dramatic as they come.

"Romano, what's wrong? Tell me what you lost and I'll help you find it." Veneziano, like any good brother in his position would do, placed his hand on his brother's shoulder. It was supposed to be a comforting gesture, but Romano refused him.

Veneziano pulled his smarting hand away when Romano slapped him a little too roughly than was necessary. "Hey!"

"Fine." Romano snapped. "I lost one of my journals, okay?"

The younger Italian blinked. He knew that Romano was a private person, but why would he bring one of his journals on a business endeavor? It would make sense for him to leave it back in his private room at home, but this was unexpected.

"Well, where do you think—"

Romano snapped the lid of the suitcase shut, his green eyes darkening in thought. "I bet Prussia has it."

* * *

Now, most Nations who hadn't known Prussia personally would think that he wasn't as dedicated to his job like his younger brother. To that, well, he had to say that they were completely wrong. Who do they think taught Germany how to be disciplined, to be the warrior and powerhouse that was needed when their shared territory was at its wit's end? Years of having Germany be the face, the foundation of their Nation, had ushered Prussia into the shadows, a place that he had not been acquainted with due to his years as a burgeoning power in Europe. However, he found that he thrived there as a veteran and as a dying flame that would surely be taken up by his young brother when the right time came.

Honestly, the thought should have filled him with sadness, yet…

Prussia wiped a few strands of his pale hair away from his face. Now was not the time to think about things like that.

As he settled onto the desk that was inside of his hotel room, he began thumbing through various documents and folders. Some were written in his neat, but cramped hand. Others were either typed up by fellow delegates or written in another Nation's respective hand. As Prussia began rewriting his notes into a laptop supplied to him by his dependable, younger brother, he managed to knock something off his desk. Now, that shouldn't have been a small problem, but it sounded heavy. Like it had weight.

Frowning, Prussia leaned over to the side where the object fell and picked it up.

It was a small notebook, spiral bound and tattered around the edges. There were a few papers wedged into the notebook, the edges of which were yellowed and worn, as if the person who owned the notebook had touched and perused them many times before. Speaking of the owner, there was no name written on the cover… maybe if he… Although Prussia had a mischievous streak a mile long that roared in his blood, he took the matter of the situation in a serious way. Lost information, be it business or personal, was not something that should be trifled with.

Prussia knew the feeling.

He had a room filled with old journals that he didn't want anyone rifling through.

Detached and not really expecting much, the weathered Nation flipped the cover of the notebook open. At first, Prussia had to squint at the top leftmost corner. The handwriting was tiny, cramped, and angular. Further observation revealed that the ink blotted and bled over the curves and slashes of the written name. It was messy, but an artform all to itself.

But what really shocked Prussia was when he finally deciphered what the combination of loops and straight lines meant.

_Reppublica Italiana._

_Italia Romano._

There was a date scrawled underneath the titles, probably the date when he had first received the notebook.

"Huh. Never knew Romano to be one for such sentiment. I wonder…"

Prussia allowed his eyes to take in the first few paragraphs of what seemed to be a rant or a list of grievances. Satisfied, but feeling a little guilty that he allowed his eyes to caress those beautifully written words on the lined page, Prussia closed the notebook and began feeling his pockets for his cell phone.

_Hey! I think I have one of your things. _

After sending that message, Italy managed to send in a response faster than one of his soldiers retreating.

Specifically, South Italy.

When Prussia scrolled through his messages, he could see a gigantic block of text that was all written in a dialect that he could only guess originated from Great Rome himself.

Prussia didn't have to translate the message.

He already knew what the gist of it was.

_Are you going to come visit me soon… or are you going to continue yelling at me?_

This time, there was no response from the southern half of Italy.

Preparing himself for the inevitable, Prussia began to head towards his hotel door when he felt his phone vibrate again. He sighed. Was Romano going to chew him out again?

Another surprise.

This time, it wasn't a text, but a call from Veneziano.

"Hel—"

"Romano hasn't killed you yet, has he?"

"Oh ye of little faith!" Even though Veneziano wasn't there to see him personally, Prussia mimed placing an affronted hand over his heart, a melancholic expression on his face. "As if your brother could possibly hope to kill me!"

Veneziano chuckled a little into the receiver, a sound that warmed Prussia's heart. It seemed that nowadays, not many people could find the strength to laugh freely nowadays. It was saddening, but more so when it came to the warm Mediterranean Nation.

"Silly man, I'm just making sure that you didn't take a look through Romano's notes. He absolutely hates it when people… or rather, me, look at it."

Prussia couldn't help but laugh. "Notes? Veneziano, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but it's clearly a journal! I didn't look through it, but it's kinda obvious that he's—"

"YOU BASTARD, YOU'VE BEEN LOOKING THROUGH MY PRIVATE JOURNAL?!"

Prussia's blood ran cold when he heard that shout come straight from his cell phone. Had… Had Veneziano knowingly called him and allowed his brother to listen in? That little, manipulative shi—

"I'M GONNA GO FULL VESUVIUS ON YOUR PASTY, ALBINO LITTLE ASS AND YOU'RE GONNA WISH—"

As the sound of Romano's shouts slowly faded away along with the sound of a resounding bang of the door filled the silence, Prussia found himself all too aware of the quiet giggles on the other end of the phone call.

North Italy was still on the other end of the line.

"You're a little shit, Veneziano."

A low chuckle filled Prussia's ear. Despite himself, Prussia felt warm and content as he allowed that sound to caress his ears.

"And you should know better than to go through my brother's things."


	53. North American Hubris

**52\. North American Hubris**

Date Written: _April 10, 2019_

Date Posted_: April 27, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano, Romano, America, Canada_

Summary: _The Italy brothers reluctantly visit the American twins. _

Notes:

* * *

The day had finally come. After years of prayer, sacrifices, and pure unadulterated hope, the Italy brothers had finally run out of excuses. At the unreasonable hour of whatever-time-it-was, both brunets wheeled their luggage to the waiting area, both of them wanting to collapse from the sheer dullness of having not stretched their legs for many hours. However, due to sheer force of will, both brothers managed to stay alert and ready for the next course of action. As they waited, Romano grumbled under his breath and played with the apps on his phone while Veneziano busied himself with fiddling with the zipper on his suitcase.

As minutes passed and there was no sign of anyone picking them up, Romano began to grow antsy. What exhaustion he had experienced after attending the flight seemed to disappear as his leg bounced up and down as his anxiety began to mount.

"Where the hell are those two useless shitstains!" Romano demanded. Ignoring his brother's shrug, he continued talking, "Aren't they always complaining that we're always late? Well, guess what! We're here right on time—"

At that moment, Veneziano abruptly stood up and waved both arms as if he were summoning foreign aid.

Or surrendering.

"_Stupidi idioti_!" Much to the amusement of all the other travelers, the Italian continued waving his arms and jumping on his feet. "We're here!"

Romano groaned as he, too, jumped to his feet to scan the crowd for their friends.

"Can you even try to be a little louder?" Romano asked sarcastically. "I don't think those two dorks know we're here."

Veneziano nodded. "CIAO! WE WILL FLIRT WITH ALL OF YOUR WOMEN IF YOU DON'T COME HERE FASTER!"

At that precise moment, two very tall blonds emerged from the crowd. One of the pair was trying to calm the other down. Upon closer inspection, it was actually the Canadian trying to flee from his American brother's grasp. Huh, Veneziano thought, who knew that Canada could get so aggressive? As America trapped his brother into a headlock, Veneziano gathered up his suitcase and approached the pair with wild cheer.

"America! Canada!"

Carefully, he pecked them on the cheeks. Both of the North Americans had to bend down a little just so that they could receive the standard greeting, but they did so with bashful grins. As a pair, they turned to the older Italian, but found that a glare had planted itself on his face. There was no way that he was going to kiss those idiots for being so tardy.

"Come on, 'Mano!" America tried to cajole Romano. He slung an arm over his friend's shoulders, but found himself on the receiving end of a jab to the ribs. As he keeled over in shock rather than in actual pain, Canada tried his best to greet Romano.

"Sorry we were a little late." Canada let out a small laugh that seemed a touch too forced before he elaborated. "We wanted to make sure that our place was… habitable."

Already, Romano knew that this was going to be one hell of a vacation. And no, he didn't mean that to be a compliment. Meanwhile, Veneziano entertained those same thoughts of reservation, but he didn't let that show on his face. Instead, he linked his arm through Canada's and followed him out of the airport and into the outside. He began to talk about the things they were going to do, what sights he and his brother wanted to explore, what restaurants they could go eat—

"Oh," Canada interrupted. He turned to face Veneziano with a slight smile on his face that seemed to be tinged with the slightest hint of mischief. "You don't have to worry about that. We actually have a home cooked meal waiting for you guys."

That caught Veneziano's attention. That wasn't part of the deal.

"O-oh, really?"

"Yup!"

"...and that would be?"

"My special macaroni and cheese!"

Veneziano immediately began backtracking towards the airport.

"American food is so gross!"


	54. Playing Hooky

**53\. Playing Hooky**

Date Written: _April 24, 2019_

Date Posted_: May 2, 2020_

Characters: _Veneziano_

Summary: _Veneziano gets bored during a meeting. _

Notes:

* * *

Veneziano was tired.

Very tired.

Even though the presentation itself wasn't too boring or too provocative (for once), the Mediterranean Nation couldn't stave off the telltale signs of mental exhaustion and physical fatigue. Lazy brown eyes fluttered under the weight of his eyelids while his mouth smoothly parted with a betraying yawn that he barely covered with a hand. Fortunately, most Nations present were all too aware of the Italian's tendencies. At this point, one of them offered to give a copy of their notes and a recording of the presentation—an offer that had Veneziano thanking them and dashing out into the empty silence of the hallway outside.

It was a welcoming sort of atmosphere that the normally energetic man enjoyed. With a sigh, he sunk into the plush cushions of a nearby chair. Although it wasn't as comfortable (or stylish) as he would have liked, he nestled himself deep into the cushions, not caring in the least that his suit jacket was at a risk of becoming bedraggled and crumpled. Besides, most had seen him bloodied from war—one little crease here and there wouldn't stain his reputation.

For a while, he let his breathing even. His eyes gently closed and he felt himself fall into the arms of Morpheus…

"Sir," a muted voice spoke. It was only because the voice sounded feminine and shy that stopped Veneziano from waking up with a scowl on his face. "Is this yours?"

Hmm? The Italian made a humming noise of confusion before opening bleary eyes. When his vision had corrected itself to account for the sudden transition from sleep to wakefulness, he recognized an object that the pretty lady held in her hand. It was a highlighter that Japan had sent him for his birthday a few years ago. It was one of those pastel colored highlighters that was thick and bright enough to catch his eyes, but not too bright that Italy would have a headache trying to decipher the presentation printouts. It was a helpful device that saved North Italy from getting endlessly hounded by Germany.

"Oh my! I usually take better care of my things!" He straightened in his seat and gave the young woman a bright smile. She placed the highlighter into his waiting palm. A lovely blush decorated her cheeks—looks like his flirting wasn't as rusty as he was led to believe. "_Grazie, bella_! What brings you here?"

If possible, the woman blushed even harder. It was during that moment when the Italian realized that she was wearing professional attire and the lanyard bearing an ID, which alerted Veneziano to the fact that this woman must have been a political aide for one of his fellow Nations. He would have recognized her as one of his own, but there was something distinctly _other _that marked her as another Nation's child. Still, she was fairly pretty and by the looks of it, professional and kind to boot.

The young woman smiled and tucked a loose lock that had drifted from the strict coils of her bun and answered, "Would it be unprofessional of me to say that I was getting bored?" She shrugged her shoulders and looked away, clearly embarrassed by her admission.

"Don't worry about it!" Italy placed a hand on her shoulder and beamed at the surprised look on her face. "Trust me, most of us have skipped out on conferences multiple times before. No one will give you too much trouble for it. And if they do—"

Veneziano made a small cutting motion over his neck. It was meant in jest, but the woman looked a little past him in what appeared to be fear.

"Ah, miss—?"

A large hand, masculine and familiar, wrapped itself around his bicep. Veneziano, with the hesitancy one would find in a stalked prey animal, looked up to see an all too familiar face looking down at him with disappointment in his clear, blue eyes. Electric blue, Veneziano would say if he were painting them. Now, all Veneziano wanted to do was scurry away as fast as he could away from his northern neighbor.

"Italy, how many times have I told you, don't just run out the door—"

"But—" Veneziano couldn't help but whine. "—I swear, I asked permission to go! And besides, I was busy talking to this beautiful young woman over here!"

There was a sound that was akin to that of a snort or a cough, but Veneziano paid it no mind. The woman must have not been used to hearing compliments about her, which was a shame. She was utterly gorgeous and if given enough time… maybe they could be spending time over some cups of espresso!

Germany looked down at him with that cold stare before letting go of his arm.

"Oh, fine. I suppose you've been diligent in your notes for the past few meetings!"

"_Grazie Dio_!"

Veneziano tugged the woman after him, running in the opposite direction of the meeting.

"Wait!" Germany began to run after the Italian a few paces, but stopped in defeat. "You forgot your highligher, you stupid Italian."


	55. AN

Hey guys, Devin here! Due to strenuous circumstances (quarantine and other issues), I'll have to put this story on hold. That said, I think I'll take the next month or so off? The last few uploads aren't up to par with my usual standards, which makes me feel terrible because I feel like I should be uploading passable content. Hopefully, with this mini vacation, I should be good to go the next time I post.

I'll see you guys in a few months if all goes well.

Regards, Devin Trinidad


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